


Baker Street: Part VII

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 366 [19]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Supernatural
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Arguments, Art, Attempted Murder, Berkshire, Birds, Buckinghamshire, Cats, Codes & Ciphers, College, Cumberland, Dessert & Sweets, Disguise, Dogs, Double Penetration (minor characters), Embarrassment, England (Country), F/M, Family, Foursome (minor characters), Gay Sex, Harnesses, Horses, Illegitimacy, Johnlock - Freeform, Justice, Kent - Freeform, Lincolnshire, London, Love, M/M, Major Character Injury, Male Prostitution, Middlesex, Minor Character Death, Multi, Murder, Nobility, Nudity, Oxford, Police, Politics, Secrets, Servants, Size Difference, Theft, Trains, Twincest, Victorian, Voyeurism (minor characters), Wiltshire, cover-ups, essex, mining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:02:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 64,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24896629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Complete Cases Of Sherlock Holmes And John Watson. All 366 cases plus assorted interludes, hiatuses, codas &c.1895. Murderous parents, misplaced siblings, mistaken aunts, missed profits, missing cats, mortified nobleman, mad dogs, misunderstood death-notices, mis-timed trains, and more than obliging menservants abound as the Baker Street era continues. Curiously this year ends with four cases each with an animal theme, the last of which once again threatens the life of Sherlock – but luckily help is at hand.
Relationships: Inspector Macdonald/OMC, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Elementary 366 [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555741
Kudos: 21





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vitabear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vitabear/gifts), [KezialovesShandJohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KezialovesShandJohn/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contents page.

** 1895 **

**Interlude: Caution**  
by Lady Aelfrida Holmes  
_The authoress hopes that her son Randall will not be so stupid (again)_

 **Case 201: The Adventure Of Wisteria Lodge**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Lives or profits – some men clearly prioritize the latter_

 **Case 202: The Adventure Of The Maiden Aunt**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_A young man is concerned over barley-sugars_

 **Case 203: The Adventure Of The Tartan Threesome**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sergeant Chatton Smith gets three shocks in short order!_

 **Interlude: Too Much Of A Good Thing?**  
by Sergeant Chatton Smith  
_Sergeant Smith keeps it in the family!_

 **Case 204: The Adventure Of The Freckled Frieze**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Lord Harry Hawke is shocked by some naked artwork – of him!_

 **Case 205: The Adventure Of The Solitary Cyclist**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A premonition proves fatally true in a tramway death_

 **Case 206: The Adventure Of The Three Students**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Sherlock and John return to Oxford for another case of theft_

 **Case 207: The Adventure Of The Hidden Hunter**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_The insatiable Benji gets a shock – he too has an unexpected relative!_

 **Interlude: One Of Us**  
by Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles, Esquire  
_Benji's new sibling is.... downright irritating!_

 **Case 208: The Untimely Death Of Cardinal Tosca**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_An obituary notice in the 'Times' sparks an international incident_

 **Case 209: The Adventure Of The Houseboys ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Sherlock finds out just what the Selkirk twins have been up to_

 **Case 210: The Adventure Of The Burnt Book ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Burning a book is a terrible thing – most times_

 **Case 211: The Adventure Of The Kesteven Killer**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Murder is afoot – but a storm wrecks someone's best-laid plans_

 **Interlude: Little Things**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Once again, Sherlock remembers the 'little people'_

 **Case 212: The Adventure Of The Spotty Dog ☼**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_For once John solves a case - to someone's embarrassment_

 **Case 213: The Adventure Of Black Peter**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A stolen cat, a small client – and a new resident for 221B_

 **Case 214: Descent Into Purgatory**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Sherlock makes a mistake over canaries that are not canaries_

 **Interlude: Breaking-Point**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_A moment of mirth after the mistake at the mine_

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	2. Interlude: Caution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. A word to the wise – or perhaps in this case, to the terminally stupid.

_[Narration by Lady Aelfrida Holmes]_

It really was incredibly vexing. I had been close to finishing my latest masterpiece about a vicar who insisted on putting brides-to-be through a _very_ thorough examination before he would let them into his church – 'Married With Children' – and now I had to go and see Randall after this latest problem concerning him and my sweet little Sherry-werry. 

I suppose that strictly speaking I did not _have_ to go and see Randall. But I had Commanded his attendance to explain what had happened and incredibly he had pleaded pressure of work, as if that were actually a valid excuse! Family first is the rule in this house, so I set off to his offices to have Words with him.

He was more than a little surprised at my advent, and I frowned at the lavishness of his room there. It did not feel it but the fire must have been far too hot; he was sweating heavily.

“I want your assurance that this latest problem affecting my sweet little Sherry-werry was none of your doing”, I said, taking a seat. 

“OfcoursenotMother”, he said, somehow contriving to look even shiftier than normal.

“I do hope so”, I said firmly. “My patience with you is fast running out, Randall. Also with Mycroft; I know full well that he is keeping something from me for some reason. I do not know why; you all surely know by now that the longer it takes me to find out, the more annoyed I will be when that finally happens.”

“YesMother!” he said in a tone that a choirboy would have been envious of. Although if he upset me over my sweet little Sherry-werry again, then he might end up having something removed that would get him up there on a permanent basis. Removed by me personally!

“All well and good”, I said shortly. “I was going to take my latest masterpiece, 'The Gilmore Girls', to Sherlock in hospital but Doctor Greenwood says that the strong emotions that my stories incite might be bad for the boy in his weakened condition. So I shall have you round this weekend instead. It is that long one about the cross-dressing cowboys and the farm implements.”

I looked pointedly at him. I do not know why he looked less than thrilled; as dear Doctor Greenwood so rightly said, my stories always incited strong emotions. It was such a pity that dear Chuckie's hearing prevented him from enjoying them as he so clearly would have done, but as he had said, that was what we had had sons for.

“Just make sure that you stay the right side of me, Randall”, I said firmly.

“YesMother!”

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Unfortunately the fool boy was not far away from getting very firmly on the wrong side of me – and once again, over my sweet little Sherry-werry.

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	3. Case 201: The Adventure Of Wisteria Lodge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. The urge to obtain a good home is human nature – but so is the urge to make money, and some men are prepared to kill those who stand in the way of the nice fat profit that they are clearly entitled to.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

I mentioned some time ago the history of our dear home, 221B Baker Street – I always thought of it as such despite our only being tenants there – and how it had evolved from being part of the former Glendower Mansion. As the great metropolis expanded its tendrils ever further outwards the pressure to build became ever more intense, and it was a development of this sort which brought us our next case.

Christmas and the New Year had been a joyous affair, and not just because I had survived yet another attempt by the Fates to take my Sherlock from me. That I now bore two of his rings on my finger made me feel more married than any husband (no, _not_ the other thing that started with the twenty-third letter of the alphabet and that rhymed with knife!), and I only had to look down on that tiny blue sapphire to think of those blue eyes staring lovingly at me to feel impossibly happy. It was capped off when on New Year's Eve Mrs. Hudson surprised neither of us by announcing that she would soon be being referred to as Mrs. Malone. Sherlock took us all out to a meal at his brother Guilford's latest hotel where he had booked a night for the happy couple. Then we returned to Baker Street where we saw in the New Year together. Fireworks inside and out!

Thank the Lord that I had New Year's Day off. I was still limping on the second; our landlady really needed to install one of those new lift things, as stairs _hurt!_

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The gentleman who brought us our next case was shown up by Mrs. Hudson one cold winter's afternoon. Despite my lamentable lack of detective skills my immediate thought on seeing him was 'philatelist' which proved most accurate (all right, for once!) although his main hobby was being a numismatist. He was announced as Mr. Timothy Jones and was about sixty years of age with one of what our estimable landlady had once referred to as 'those quiet faces'. He took a seat in our fireside chair and began.

“I must start”, he said, “by informing you that this is not really a matter that involves me as such, and although my small income is enough to sustain me in my retirement, any payment that I could make for your services would be small indeed. Yet certain events in my neighbourhood have given me cause for some disquiet and I wondered if you might consider looking into them. I rather fear that what has been thus far a sequence of seemingly minor events may soon evolve into something more serious. Possibly even deadly.”

“You are worried about your neighbours?” I asked, confused. He smiled.

“I express myself poorly, as always”, he said. “I have a small house in the town of Wembley in Middlesex, by name of 'South Gate'. As the name implies it is a converted gate-house originally serving a large house called 'Wisteria Lodge' which is set some distance back. I mention this only in that it explains that I do not employ a maid as such but pay half the salary of one of the girls at the Lodge who keeps the place clean for me. I can manage most things by myself and am in fact fond of cooking, with a special partiality towards anything involving bacon.”

Sherlock's eyes lit up. I wondered if our guest knew that he had just improved his standing no end. Next thing we knew people would be offering payment in breakfast foods, he would in all probability happily accept every case around and then where would we.....

_He was looking at me again!_

“The girl who 'does' for me, Helen, tells me a lot of what happens up at the Lodge”, our guest continued, blessedly unaware of the mind-reading tendencies of a certain someone in the vicinity. “I would try to dissuade her but I rarely socialize, and I would as a rule never divulge what she says to anyone. Indeed I had thought her prattling harmless enough until recently, when matters at her house began to take a somewhat alarming turn.”

“Although we have had a railway through the town for many years it was only two years past that we acquired our own station to serve the huge amusement park† in the area. It is developments arising from that change which bring me here today, as Wisteria Lodge is quite near to the new railway station by means of a public footpath. Last year a local developer, a most unpleasant fellow called Mr. Usher Sheffield, began buying up properties in the area so that he could replace the large houses with many more smaller ones. He is known to local people as 'the Shark' as he always wears one of those fake smiles which he doubtless thinks comes across as sincere, and his business dealings are what the local newspaper describes as 'oftentimes questionable', which I believe is newspaper parlance for illegal but not such as can be proven. On the few occasions that I have been unfortunate enough to see him himself he quite unnerved me, although to be fair I am easily affrighted. I would not have objected to selling to him had I been offered a fair price, but he approached the Misses Pangbourne who own the Lodge first as they have by far the most land and they very firmly declined. I know only one other person in the area who was approached and they told me that his offer to them was some way below their house's true value.”

“So something has happened to the Pangbournes”, Sherlock observed, “and your shared maid has told you of her concerns. “What, exactly?”

He hesitated.

“Helen thinks that Miss Lavinia and Miss Sheila have become 'unlucky'”, he said. “Although she did not say as much, I could not but observe that the accidents only began _after_ the ladies had refused Mr. Sheffield's ungenerous offer.”

“Have you perchance kept a list of these 'accidents'?” Sherlock asked. 

Our guest nodded and took out a small notebook. 

“Last October, Miss Lavinia slipped on the hallway floor”, he said. “The entrance-way rug had been taken to be washed and it was thought that the housemaid must have polished the floor too much, but Helen said that was not likely as she knew the girl whose task it was and that she rarely did a good job of such things. This happened on the sixth, which was just two days after the ladies had given their final refusal to Mr. Sheffield.”

Sherlock frowned. 

“Go on”, he said.

“The ladies were away visiting some friends for two weeks around the start of November”, Mr. Jones continued. “A week or so after their return, on the twenty-third, Miss Sheila had an attack of food-poisoning. She has always had a weakness for oysters and the doctor said that she must have just found a bad lot.”

“I suppose that the maid thought otherwise”, Sherlock said.

“In this instance”, our guest said, “she was right!”

I raised my eyebrows at that.

“How do you know that?” Sherlock asked.

“Helen knew that my nephew William works as a chemist”, he explained. “The cook, Mrs. Bush, was suspicious – she had checked the oysters herself beforehand as a wise person does with seafood – and gave her two of the discarded oysters to pass on to me so that I could give them to William for testing. The poison that they contained could only have been placed there deliberately, he was sure. As I am sure you can imagine I had to lie to Helen over his findings, which I did not like doing.”

“Why did you not inform the police?” Sherlock asked.

“I had to promise Helen when she handed them to me that I would not”, he said ruefully. “The Misses Pangbourne are good people, but.... they are very set in their ways. I do not think that they would take a maid's word on such a matter, or even mine for that matter. Besides....”

He tailed off. 

“Besides, you and she are both of the opinion that someone in the house is involved in these attacks”, Sherlock said, “and that if you spoke out they might well have this girl fired. I think that you were quite wise so to do, and to come to us rather than the police.”

He nodded.

“Helen has some suspicions about Farrant, the butler”, he said. “She told me that he was always complaining about not being paid enough, yet ever since these 'accidents' commenced he seems to have money to throw around, as he is often in town betting on the horses. Helen's father works at one of the turf accountants in town, which was how she knew. Farrant is not an overly pleasant person from what little I know of him.”

“Most interesting”, Sherlock said. “Please go on.”

“There was an incident on the eighth of December when Miss Lavinia tripped over the steps on her way out of the house”, our guest said, “but I cannot be sure about that as it had been raining heavily and Helen said that the steps were indeed slippery. Also it was one of the back doors out of the house which was hardly ever used and no-one expected Miss Lavinia to go out that way; she had been refilling the bird-table before leaving which was usually the gardener's job, except they were ill that day.”

“The last incident that I can be sure about happened over Christmas, Boxing Day to be precise. The ladies share a scruffy little Yorkshire terrier called Marmaduke. An adorable creature who often tears round the grounds for hours on end; Lord alone knows where he gets his energy. Miss Sheila slipped on a ball that the dog had left out and had to have her leg put in a cast.”

“That could have been an accident”, I said. Our visitor shook his head.

“Helen was sure that it was not”, he said, “and she said that the other staff agreed with her on this. She told me that the dog is fiercely possessive of that ball and will only bring it to the ladies when they wish to play with him. He always returns it to his basket afterwards, without fail. Someone extracted it and left it at the top of the stairs for Miss Sheila to trip over. Thankfully Doctor Peters was bringing her some medicine at the time and she fell into him rather than all the way down, which might well have killed her.”

“This is verging on attempted murder”, Sherlock said with a frown. “And with at least one incident a month, another strike is likely soon. We must move fast. May I ask what your own plans are for today, sir?”

“There is a coin exhibition at the British Museum that I wished to see”, Mr. Jones said. “I was going to wait a few weeks as the crowds are always larger when it has only just started, but in view of what has been happening I felt that it was imperative to request your help at once.”

“You were quite right so to do”, Sherlock said. “This is a mater of the greatest urgency, and we thank you for bringing it to our attention. We shall take this case.”

As always the 'we' gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. Even if my manliness was looking into travel options to Neptune. _And someone really could cut with the damn nodding!_

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Mr. Jones left us after thanking us for our time. Sherlock sat there deep in thought.

“This is worrisome”, he said. “We must act quickly before one or both of those ladies has another so-called 'accident'. I shall go to Wembley tomorrow morning.”

I stared at him in silent disapproval. He chuckled. 

“I do not think that two elderly ladies are going to attempt to assault me”, he grinned. “Our Mr. Sheffield wishes to scare the ladies sufficiently to force them to sell, I would wager at some way below the current market value. I would welcome your help as well of course.”

“What would you have me do?” I asked, only a little mollified.

“Are you free for the rest of the day?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then can you take a train to Wembley and find out two things?” he asked. “First check the size of Mr. Sheffield's estate agency in the town and find out if he has any competition. Second, after you take a look at the house, find out how much similar properties are selling for in the area. That information would help me greatly.”

“And you promise that it is only the ladies that you will be seeing tomorrow?” I asked, still suspicious. Sherlock was recovered from his recent beating but he still moved gingerly around the room when he thought that I was not looking at him and he had been more exhausted than usual after our welcoming in the New Year together. As well as.....

“I am hardly a cripple”, he smiled, interrupting my thoughts. “Last night should have showed you that!”

I blushed fiercely. It was a good point, and well made. 

“Three times!”, he muttered, again showing that annoying mind-reading ability of his.

“I am coming with you when you go”, I said, blushing in what was definitely a manly-like manner. “I can wait outside if you wish to see the ladies by yourself but I am not letting you go alone, especially with you not yet fully recovered.”

I fully expected him to argue the point but to my surprise he did not. He merely smiled, and resumed his paper. I got my coat and left for the station, wondering at his compliance. Of course I welcomed it but it was just.... not like him.

Lord help me I was getting more like the proverbial nagging wife every day! Still, at least I had the ring for it - _and damn me if that was not another nod!_

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“Wisteria Lodge is a most handsome house”, I told Sherlock as we lay together later than night. It was a wonder that I could manage those tricky things called sentences after he had made me come twice in quick succession by jerking me off almost the moment I had gotten onto the bed. “Late Georgian if I am any judge but it looks nothing like the 221 block, although oddly it has a similar sort of history. It was once three adjoining properties set in one large grounds of which 'Wisteria Lodge' was the central one; the ladies' late father Mr. George Pangbourne had been smart enough to acquire his neighbours' houses when they had come up for sale, and had them partly incorporated into his own house but mostly knocked down to give him full control of a huge parcel of land just as London was advancing on the area. The ladies sold off the land along the rear approach road, including Mr. Jones's house, over ten years back but their place is still very private and possessed of at least double the acreage to what one might expect. There are five other properties further along the road but our client was right; the layout is such that unless the Pangbournes sell the options for development would be extremely limited because of access issues.”

“Mr. Sheffield?” Sherlock asked. I shuddered.

“I saw him leaving the estate agents that he owns. It is called 'Sheffield & Brookwood' but the secretary said that Mr. Brookwood retired to Norfolk early last year and the name had not yet been altered. From the very large photograph of him in his office – not as large as his ego, she said - our 'shark' is what they call a half-caste. I know that we both hate the expression but unfortunately the English language has nothing better as of yet. I did not find anyone else who had a good word to say about him, and I did ask around. There is one other estate agents in the town, Mackworth & Sons, but it is considerably smaller.”

“Did you find the value of the property?” he asked.

“The lady at Mackworth's was quite helpful”, I said, somehow 'forgetting' to mention that the brazen hussy had asked me if my famous partner was still single. “She said that they had lost a lot of business to Mr. Sheffield of late and that she knows that he offered a Mr. Kitchener just under seven hundred pounds‡ for his property, 'Glen Eyre'. I looked at the plans for both; Wisteria Lodge is larger, nearly double the acreage and in a superior location.”

“Since we are talking development then those factors are important”, he said. “I am still sorting out certain arrangements for this case and will not be able to go now until the weekend. Would you be able to walk to the post-office tomorrow morning to send a telegram for me?”

“Of course”, I said. “What is it about?”

He chuckled.

“Assuming that Mr. Sheffield does not pre-empt us, we are going to try to force his hand”, he explained. “A mysterious new buyer is about to arrive in Wembley looking for a large house near the railway station so that he may establish himself in the neighbourhood.”

I grinned.

“I suspect I know this new buyer”, I said.

“You are just about to”, he said. “In a Biblical sense!”

It was really unfair that he could as much as just kiss me and I was putty in his hands. I sighed happily as he worked his way inside my mouth, relaxing deeper into the bed as he clambered on top of me. We might now both be the wrong side of forty but Sherlock's stamina was always phenomenal, and I could only smile lazily as he worked himself to between my legs, instinctively raised in hopeful expectation. 

“I thought I might try something different tonight”, he smirked. 

I looked at him expectantly. Then he produced a long black feather from somewhere I knew not and I raised my eyebrows. At least until he brushed it gently over my left nipple, sensitive as ever, and I whined in pleasure. 

“So beautiful”, he praised and I blushed deeply. “I love watching you come apart, John. My perfect mate.”

He continued to brush against both my nipples and my painfully leaking cock, and I barely noticed his working me open until I felt his cock head at my entrance. I grunted my approval and he pushed in in one long stroke. I let out a noise that was somewhere between a strangled yelp and a mating-call of some African wildebeest, and soon after I was coming violently while he continued to stoke the feather against my chest and nipples. 

“Mwah?” I managed. He smiled and continued his work, and incredibly I started getting hard again. Mercifully he slowed down his actions, perhaps a little perturbed at my laboured breathing, but when I managed a strangled “more!” he picked up the pace again and within minutes I was coming a second time, this time echoed by his own orgasm deep inside me. I sighed happily and fell even deeper into the comfort of the mattress. This was Heaven!

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Sherlock's telegram, which I managed to post after limping the several hundred miles to wherever some bastard had moved our local post-office, stated that a Mr. Colin Michaels was looking for a large London property in the central Middlesex area and had already sent scouts ahead to examine several possible sites. I fully expected Sherlock to arrange to accompany me on Saturday when I went back, so I was surprised therefore when he instead arranged to meet me in a little restaurant in Wembley High Street

I had spent what seemed like an eternity in the restaurant before I realized someone was standing next to my table. I looked up to see a rotund, tall blond fellow with dark glasses, seriously over-gelled hair, a moustache and a garish bright pink shirt. I was unable to stop myself from wincing.

“May I be of service?” I managed, being sufficiently courteous not to add in free directions to the nearest gentleman's outfitter's. Or the nearest dustbin!

The walking disaster's reply nearly bowled me over.

“Only if you can order Mr. Colin Michaels a coffee.”

I stared in astonishment. The nightmare opposite looked nothing like my friend – until he took off his glasses and I found myself staring into those familiar blue eyes of his. And yes, he had our rings on. It was him!

 _“Sherlock?”_

He grinned.

“It is good to know that I can still surprise you”, he said. “Is there coffee?”

I managed to wave a waitress over to give her the order while a strange man sat opposite me. It was.. unnerving.

“I have had a most productive day”, he said happily. “I went to Wisteria Lodge as Mr. Michaels, and explained that I wished to make the ladies an offer for their house of fifteen hundred guineas. I explained that I would wish to refurbish the house to my own tastes but would of course understand how such a thing may have made them disinclined to sell, so I also invited them to visit my current house, 'Bellbrook' over in the Buckinghamshire village of Denham, which I have had similarly 'improved'. They will be travelling there tomorrow lunch-time; it is a government property that Randall has made available to me.”

“They will be disappointed when no offer materializes”, I pointed out.

“Bearing in mind that Bellbrook is furnished more to Randall's so-called 'tastes', they will most likely decline to sell anyway!” he smiled. “The maid was all too right about the butler; I nearly knocked him over when I left as he was listening just the other side of the door!”

I chuckled at that.

“I then went to the offices of Mr. Sheffield”, he continued. “A most unpleasant character; we should perhaps be grateful that he has limited his criminal activities to his own profession thus far. Mr. Jones was quite correct in his aquatic appellation; the fellow's smile was most shark-like. I took details of three other properties that I had not yet considered and mentioned my visit to the Lodge. Clearly Mr. Farrant had not reached him yet; the man spluttered into his coffee when I mentioned my interest in the property.”

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

“Because Mr. Sheffield now knows that he is in danger of being outbid”, he said. “He will have to try something in order to prevent the ladies from reaching Denham tomorrow which means that he _must_ act tonight. Then we will have him!”

“But he would not wish the ladies dead, surely?” I asked.

“I am very much afraid that he he might”, Sherlock said. “My research has showed that in the event of the ladies' deaths the house would pass to their first cousin once removed, a young fellow called Mr. Heston Brown who lives in Ashford-on-Thames. Worryingly Mr. Sheffield visited that town just before this run of 'accidents' began, I can only assume to meet with Mr. Brown as he had no business there. If he has obtained an assurance that the cousin would sell then the ladies' lives are indeed in danger.”

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Since it was January it was already all but dark by the time we left the restaurant. I must admit that I was quite relieved that Sherlock divested himself of his disguise in the cab we took back to Sylvan Road; hearing the familiar voice coming from an unfamiliar form was disconcerting to say the least. As for that shirt... ugh!

It was fully dark by the time we were dropped off in Sylvan Road and we made our way silently into the grounds of 'Wisteria Lodge'. Sherlock led me to the stables which were separated from the main house by a screen of beech trees. He effortlessly picked the lock to the small office at the back; as usual it worried me just how good a criminal he would have made at times like this.

“I expect Mr. Sheffield to bring some men to try to tamper with the Pangbournes' carriage this evening”, he explained. 

“What if they wait until the small hours?” I asked not looking forward to an all-night vigil in an ice-cold building. Sherlock chuckled.

“My analysis of Mr. Sheffield suggests both that he likes to do jobs in person and that he enjoys his sleep”, Sherlock said. “I am sure that Mr. Farrant will obligingly add something to the ladies' evening drinks to secure their slumbers. His paymaster will come as soon as the house had had a chance to settle down, so we will adjourn to the safety of the offices at the back. I have arranged one or two little 'surprises' for our visitors.”

I sighed but said nothing.

“You are not going to ask me what they are?” he asked with a smile.

“You never tell me”, I said in my best put-upon tone. He chuckled.

“Watch out for the rope!”

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Sherlock had I felt overstated our target's preference for early nights because it was well over an hour before I heard the sound of the padlock on the barn door being forced. Then a familiar figure emerged, his shark-teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Three other men were with him, one carrying a bag of what were presumably tools. We were outnumbered, but at least I had my gun. 

I was suddenly distracted by one of the men crying out in surprise.

“What's wrong, Bert?” his boss hissed in an angry tone. “Keep your voice down!”

“Just a rope hanging down from the ceiling, boss”, 'Bert' said. 

He grabbed the rope and pulled at it. The next moment all four men cried out in alarm as something liquid sloshed down from the dark above them. They all rushed away to a dark corner of the building, presumably in case someone had heard them and might come to investigate. Nothing happened for several minutes then there was a yelp of pain.

“Idiot!” came Mr. Sheffield's voice. “What the hell did you want to go and do that for? Now we're all covered in bloody paint.”

“It'll wash off, boss”, one of the other men whispered. “Let's get to it, eh? Micky said he'd fixed the old girls' night-time drinkies, and the servants' pad is the other side of the house.”

One of the men took a lantern from the bag and lit it then placed it next to the carriage while the other two men shimmied underneath it. There was the sound of sawing followed by some general shifting around. I wondered what they were up to but did not want to risk detection while we were outnumbered so I held my peace (and my gun). Finally the men finished what they were doing and left. 

“What were they up to?” I asked, wincing as I pulled myself upright.

“Sawing through the carriage axle enough so that it would have broken once it reached a certain speed”, he said. “We will give them a further ten minutes to be on the safe side then I propose that we should depart to the police-station and see If they would like to catch a criminal.”

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Wembley police-station was manned by a middle-aged dark-haired fellow called Sergeant Brailes. He listened gravely to Sherlock's account of the night's adventures, then frowned.

“We do only have your word – and the doctor's of course – as to this”, he said heavily. “Juries may be reluctant to convict on such especially against someone who is regarded as a pillar of the community.”

“I might suggest then that Wembley needs some new pillars”, Sherlock said. “The matter is quite easily proven.”

“How, sir?” the sergeant asked.

“Mr. Sheffield will not want paint-spattered clothes lying around after such a night”, Sherlock said. “He will do one of two things and either way you can catch him. Now here is what you need to do....”

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As might have been expected Mr. Sheffield was less than pleased when two policemen brought him into the police-station the following morning. And when he found himself in a small poorly-lit interview room with his lawyer, Sergeant Brailes, Sherlock and myself, he became positively furious.

“I do hope that you have a good reason for inviting my client here today, sergeant”, his lawyer said icily. “Your superiors do not I am sure take kindly to cases of wrongful arrest.”

“This is the gentleman who asked to see Mr. Sheffield, sir”, Sergeant Brailes said courteously. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective down from London.”

Clearly Mr. Sheffield recognized the name. Even his dark skin paled.

“What do _you_ want?” he asked warily.

To my surprise Sherlock walked over to the window and closed the shutters, leaving the room in almost total darkness.

“Let me tell you a story, Mr. Sheffield”, he said. “It concerns a ruthless property developer who wishes to buy up a lot of houses cheaply then make a fortune by replacing them with many smaller properties. Business is of course business, but when two ladies decline to sell him their house, his plans are threatened.”

“He uses his wealth to buy the loyalty of the butler, a key servant in the house, and a series of 'accidents' begins to befall the ladies. He hopes, possibly with justification, that this run of bad luck will convince them to sell. But unbeknown to him a maid in the house has talked, and details of his campaign have ended up with a certain consulting detective who has responded with a counter-plan. In disguise he plays the part of a rival buyer – in an utterly hideous pink shirt - who can outbid even our wealthy developer.”

Mr. Sheffield's eyes widened but he remained silent.

“There is still one chance, however”, Sherlock went on. “In the event of the two ladies' untimely demise before any sale, the house will pass to a first cousin who, shamefully, has agreed that he would sell to the developer although I doubt that he knew the full extent of your evil plans. Our developer visits the ladies' house the night before he knows that they are planning to take a long carriage ride and fixes it so that their vehicle will crash at high speed, thus removing the obstacles to his ever-expanding wealth.”

The lawyer opened his mouth to say something at that point but Sherlock merely looked at him and he stopped dead.

“The only hitch in proceedings comes when one of the developer's henchmen pulls at a rope hanging down from the ceiling”, Sherlock smiled as the developer looked increasingly worried. “All four men are covered in paint. Now of course this could be dismissed as an accident that could have taken place anywhere, except for the small matter that the paint in question is that most interesting of inventions, _luminescent_ paint.”

Sherlock pulled a pile of clothes from a bag and spread them out on the table. In the near pitch-dark of the room, the base of the trousers shone with blue paint which reflected the dark look in Mr. Sheffield's eyes. 

“I put that paint there”, Sherlock said, “and I also laid a covering of paint on the floor around the carriage. These were recovered from your dustbin this morning, Mr. Sheffield, by two police officers who knew nothing of last night's events. This paint is quite unique and I think that you will find it hard to explain to a jury exactly how that exact shade of blue paint went from the Pangbourne's stables to your clothes. Also that when they are examined, further traces will be found on the boots that you are currently wearing.”

The man suddenly lunged for Sherlock who stepped quickly backwards. Sergeant Brailes reached to restrain Mr. Sheffield but I was closer and pushed in between him and Sherlock before shoving him bodily back into the chair, snarling at him as I did so. As the villain's lawyer spluttered indignantly the sergeant opened the door, flooding the room with dazzling light, and summoned two of his constables who led the furious developer away. His lawyer scuttled after him.

“He was prepared to kill for money?” the sergeant said, stunned. 

“Death would have been possible, or at least a very serious injury to the passengers in that vehicle which would have encouraged a sale and achieved a similar end”, Sherlock said. “Which reminds me; we must be returning to 'Wisteria Lodge' and explain what has happened to those poor ladies. I only hope they will not mind losing out on those fifteen hundred guineas.”

“Considering that you have probably saved their lives, they most definitely should not!” I said hotly.

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There is little more to be said. Mr. Usher Sheffield went to prison for a long time for his crimes, his only relief being that the jury declined to find him guilty of attempted murder thus sparing his wretched neck. The poor Misses Pangbourne were shocked by the whole affair, almost as shocked as having been exposed to Randall's 'tastes' at Bellbook which had them returning home and writing to the address that I had left them that there was no amount of money I could offer them to put their house through _that!_ Some years later however they did decide to sell and retire somewhere smaller. Wisteria Lodge was sold to an American businessman at a price that secured for them a comfortable retirement and although he sold off some of the grounds he kept the house much as it always had been.

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_Notes:_   
_† The main attraction of this park was the Great Tower of London, an edifice intended to be taller than the Eiffel Tower in Paris, France, which it would resemble. At the time of this story the park had been open for one year and drawn many thousand of people but only the tower base had been built, and subsequent funding and structural problems meant that that was as far up as it got, the 'stub' finally being demolished in 1907. The site was subsequently used for the British Empire (later Wembley Football) Stadium in 1923. This along with its iconic Twin Towers was demolished 2002-2003 and a new stadium opened on the site in 2007._   
_‡ Given that property prices have far outstripped inflation, this would make Glen Eyre a £1 million ($1.2 million) house in 2020 prices at least, probably much more. The offer of fifteen hundred guineas (£1,575) for Wisteria Lodge would therefore be around £2.2 million ($2.75 million) today._

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	4. Case 202: The Adventure Of The Maiden Aunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. Following on from Wisteria Lodge, another case in which the love of money proves as the Good Book so rightly says to be the root of all evil.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Of the thousands of letters which poured into 221B Baker Street during my time there with John, many asked questions appertaining to our cases both published and unpublished. One such was the occasional reader who would ask one or both of us as to which of the unpublished cases we felt the most regret over having not seen the light of day. This curious little encounter that could have had quite serious repercussions but ended almost in farce was one of my choices, and only the fact that a relative of one of those involved would have been mortified had the whole story come out saved their criminal kin from social humiliation as well as the financial ruin that they fully merited. It was a curious echo of our last case as both involved greed driving someone that step too far - and again, also some unusual clothing.

Talking of unusual clothing, I did let John burn the horrendous pink shirt that I had worn in the last adventure – but not before I had fucked him wearing that and nothing else! Out with a bang!

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January of 'Ninety-Five was to become a busy month for myself and John, for we had barely returned from Wembley (and celebrated our success!) when our next case arrived in the form of a Mr. Cain Burridge. He was a young fellow in his early twenties, blond and well-presented but clearly very anxious. John bade him sit down and I looked at him curiously.

“If this matter is so urgent”, I said, “why did you walk all the way from Charing Cross rather than taking a cab?”

He stared at me in shock.

“How did you know that I came from there, sir?” he asked. “Yes, I travelled in from Hither Green and did indeed consider doing just that, but given the whole horrible mess I decided that I would rather walk across the city to give myself time to gather my thoughts.”

“It can surely have nothing to do with such an estimable institution as your employers the South Eastern Railway Company”, I said.

_(I know that John has mentioned before about the 'Railway Wars' in Kent between the deadly rivals the South Eastern and the London, Chatham & Dover Railway Companies, but at this point in their histories sheer financial exhaustion was finally forcing them to move towards some sort of fusion, and there were the first signs that things might be beginning to improve for the poor, beleaguered rail-travellers in the Garden of England. And not before time!)._

Our visitor looked surprised at my omniscience. I smiled comfortingly.

“Although they do not insist on their staff members wearing their uniform outside working hours”, I said, “they do not object to them so doing. Even if they are fortunately not so vulgar as to brand such clothing with their own insignia or coat of arms like some companies that I could mention, the trousers are always supplied in such a way as to be able to easily be taken up or down according to the size of the employee. Your trousers have clearly been taken down somewhat and the clothes manufacturer they employ makes the insides of their garment a unique shade of blue.”

John sniggered when I mentioned taking trousers down. He really did have a terrible schoolboy sense of humour at times. I would make him pay for that later, no matter how much he would enjoy it!

“It is like this, sir”, our visitor said mercifully unaware of the happy passing loop into which my train of thought had been willingly diverted. “I have an aunt and she... she is becoming something of an embarrassment.”

I stared at him in surprise. I had had all sorts of strange starts to my many cases but this was something new.

“You wish me to stop your aunt from being an embarrassment?” I asked. John was staring at our guest as if he too could not quite believe what was being said. Our visitor blushed.

“I am afraid it is worse than that”, he said looking guiltily at me. “It is all about barley-sugar.”

Well at least he had my attention. I _loved_ barley-sugar!

“Go on”, I said expectantly.

“I really am terrible at this sort of thing”, our visitor sighed. “My great-grandfather was Sir James Thompson.”

Presumably there was some sort of obvious connection between an embarrassing aunt, my favourite confectionery and that gentleman whoever he may have been or was, and I was supposed to work it out. I wondered briefly if I had crossed into a parallel universe without noticing it, a feeling that happened far too often with some of my clients. Fortunately my wonderful John came to my assistance.

“The valve man?” he asked.

I looked across at him and he smiled. He was so beautiful when he.... no, not when we had a client with us. Later, definitely. Besides, it really was _so_ satisfying when his eyes widened with terror like that!

“Sir James Thompson's company fabricated the first truly effective safety-valves for railway locomotives”, he explained, blushing slightly because he knew..... well, he _knew!_. “He made a fortune and was knighted for his work in making so many locomotives safer.† And for preventing so many journeys from ending with a bang!”

As I said, terrible humour. It was almost as if he was hoping that I would punish him for it later. Which he probably was, from that smile!

“Sir James was as I said my great-grandfather”, our visitor explained as my train of thought moved onto an extremely pleasant switchback. “He had three sons and they provided him with four grandsons and two grand-daughters. However none of the grandsons had any children and the last of them, my uncle Sir Peter Thompson died last year.”

“So you are the heir?” John asked. He shook his head.

“Sir Peter's two sisters were my aunt Agatha and my late mother”, he said. “It was one of those titles that could not be passed through the female line if the male one failed, which given the circumstances is probably just as well. There was quite an age-gap between my aunt, who is in her sixties, and my mother who married late in life before having me. The estate is being held in trust and the income from it split jointly between my aunt and myself. She lives not that far from me, although not far enough I might add.”

We both looked at him inquiringly. 

“She is _terrible!”_ he shuddered. “We all know the image of the Victorian maiden aunt; multiply that by a factor of at least one thousand and you have Aunt Agatha! She has never married and frankly I am not the least bit surprised; she seems determined to devote her remaining years in this world to making the lives of everyone that she comes across as unpleasant as possible! Given what she is like, I cannot imagine that the Good Lord will be in a hurry to have him join her any time soon – I know that I would not!”

I thought for a moment. 

“You are _sure_ that you will inherit all after she has passed?” I asked.

“Yes”, he said, looking surprised at my question. “Even the income that I am getting now is more than adequate for my needs; indeed I have only remained in my job with the railway because I enjoy it.”

“Where does the barley-sugar come into this?” I asked, hoping that I might persuade him to bring some in. As evidence, of course.

“Until Uncle Peter's death last year my aunt lived across London”, he said. “I understand that there was something wrong with her house, and rather than repair it she sold it for building land and descended on Hither Green; she has been complaining her way through the place ever since. I do not wish to sound flippant but I can seriously see someone murdering her just for the peace and quiet, as the police would find themselves with a very long list of suspects!”

Our of sight of our visitor, John held up a card with the word 'Randall' on it. He was in for some severe punishment for that later, even if I had been having much the same thoughts myself.

“It was just after she came here that the barley-sugar thing happened”, our guest continued. “I have a particular liking for the apple-flavoured variety, although it is hard to get these days. Once when I was but a boy I had been taken to visit Aunt Agatha; I remember because never had I been so glad to leave a house! I naturally had to pay a courtesy call on her when she moved into my area when she was as terrible as I remembered, and for that matter still is. Except that when I was leaving she said that there was a jar of barley-sugar on the sideboard and that she remembered how much I liked it, so I might take it.”

Again we both looked at him.

“It was _ordinary_ barley-sugar”, he said. “I found that odd. I mean, why would she remember the _sweet_ but not the _flavour?”_

I thought for some moments on the matter. I could see one possibility that I did not like at all, and which might well render our client much the poorer.

“Does this fearsome relative have a lawyer?” I asked at last. 

“I am afraid that she does”, he said, sounding almost apologetic. “An utterly loathsome example of a loathsome species, a Monsieur Jacques Tappère. Jacques, not Jack which I found odd as he has no French ancestry and apparently changed his name from John. He is a most unpleasant creature.”

“Can you describe him to me?” I asked. “Physically.”

Mr. Burridge looked surprised at that but nodded.

“About forty years of age, dark-haired, slim, dapper and far too full of himself”, he said. “It is he who always goes round to inform whoever my aunt has decided to upset next just what they have done to offend her. Most likely just sharing the same damn planet!”

John sniggered at that.

“Your aunt?” I said. “Not that I wish to meet her if it can be avoided.”

“I can understand that!” he said. “I am probably being a little rude in the comparison, but if you have read 'Great Expectations' by Mr. Charles Dickens then she is Miss Haversham to a tee. That time I had to call on her she really was in a dark room with cobwebs everywhere, just like the illustrations in that book. She was wearing some sort of mourning-dress which I thought odd, although perhaps it was for the effect she always has on people!”

“This looks to be a most curious case”, I said. “We shall most definitely take it; there are several lines of inquiry that can be pursued immediately.”

“You think the matter urgent?” Mr. Burridge asked, surprised.

“Pressing rather than urgent”, I said. “I presume that your aunt does not know that you have approached us in this matter?”

“I have not talked to her since that last meeting”, he said. “Nor would I wish to if it can be avoided!”

“I can understand that”, I said. “There is one more thing before you go, sir.”

“What is that?” he asked.

I took a card and wrote an address on it.

“A sweet-shop not too far from here in Hector Lane”, he said. “We solved a case there not long back, and I am happy to tell you that _they_ stock not just apple-flavoured barley-sugar but three other flavours as well.”

“Unless a certain consulting detective has eaten them all!” John snarked.

I looked pointedly at him. Our guest was about to leave and there was no call for that kind of remark. He visibly gulped.

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It was later that same day and we were having dinner. I should have been mulling over the case at hand but I hoped that the telegram I had dispatched to Sergeant Baldur earlier might yield results by tomorrow. I smiled across the table at John who looked at me piteously.

Having our largest dildo inside him and our newest cock-ring denying him release may just possibly have been a small factor in that look. Perhaps.

The most wondrous thing about our relationship was that we knew that there were limits beyond which neither of us would ever go once the other said stop. My half-brother Campbell had once explained to me that that was the main reason he employed 'security men' like our friends Constable Chapel and Mr. Hope, for those clients who were incapable of understanding that even for a molly-man 'no' really did mean 'no', and not 'oh go on then'. John knew that he only had to give the word and I would release him from his tortures.

His eyes suddenly widened as there was a loud click from down below. He stared at me in shock.

“Did I not mention?” I said innocently. “That particular cock-ring had three settings on it that enable a slight easing of pressure each time as it ratchets back, until full release is achieved on the fourth one.”

His sudden movement clearly jolted the dildo inside of him because there was a second click, and he moaned in desperation. Such a wonderful sound, especially when I looked inquiringly at him to see if he wanted out and he shook his head at me (we had arranged that even the slightest nod, regardless of any question on my part, would mean that I would end our little game. 

“There is chocolate cake tonight”, I pointed out. “With Mrs. Hudson's special chocolate custard. Would you like to cut yourself a slice?”

That was very mean of me, as I knew leaning forward was beyond him just now. Especially when there was a third click from beneath the table which made him look even more panicked. 

“It is hot in here”, I said conversationally. “I think that I might take my shirt off.”

I got only as far as the third button before there a final click and a moan of mixed pleasure and pain from across the table. John looked both relieved and disappointed that his torture was over. Just as well really.

“You lasted an impressive fifty-seven minutes”, I said. “You should have your cake now.”

He nodded, a smile creasing his handsome features.

“We can try to better your time later.”

He just smiled lopsidedly at me and reached for his beloved chocolate cake. If I got too engaged in my book and 'accidentally' left him to have my slice as well, he had earned it. 

He earned it even more later!

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Sergeant Baldur came round the next day. I had not been expecting good news from his endeavours, but I sensed very quickly that something was wrong. John had had to dash off to one of his surgery's richer clients who no doubt had a sore throat that was masquerading as the Black Death, so I was alone for once. 

Yes I was missing him, even though he would be back for lunch. So?

“You were right sir”, he said heavily. “We found a body all right, matching the description you gave.”

I looked at him shrewdly.

“I do not expect officers of the law to be overjoyed at finding dead people”, I said, “but you do not look well. Is something the matter?”

“It is Alice, sir”, he said. “She... she is not doing well.”

“You wife's pregnancy?” I asked, surprised. This was Mrs. D'Arcy's fifth pregnancy and the last four had been without problems as far as I knew. “Why did you not just ask John?”

“The new surgery, sir”, he said, looking unusually miserable for him.

 _Now_ I knew what he meant. A new surgery had opened up not far from his house and was, most unhappily, being run by an unpleasant curse on the medical professions called Doctor Wilton Kimmel. His bullying ways had caused several neighbouring surgeries to withdraw cover for areas that he now 'served', and I supposed that the sergeant's house was one of those affected. 

“Alice hates having him, but Doctor Watson's surgery will not cover the area now”, the sergeant said glumly. “She cannot get anyone else either. We are stuck with the rat.”

I thought for a moment then smiled.

“Maybe not”, I said. “I have an idea that might serve.”

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John duly returned at lunchtime and after a suitably restrained welcome home – perhaps I should say unrestrained as I let him doff the cock-ring that he had been wearing all morning – we ate without me at all smirking that he first had to go to his room to apply some of our now frequently used cooling unguent.

I did not smirk _that_ much. Not even when he cried trying to sit down!

After lunch we took a cab (thankfully the unguent was fast-acting) to the house of John's friend Sir Peter Greenwood. He was more than delighted to step in and take over the case of Sergeant Baldur's pregnant wife, and the social norms of the day meant that much as Doctor Kimmel would certainly complain about it (see also the sun rising in the east) his surgery would not make any fuss at being elbowed aside by a knight of the realm. Sometimes social norms were quite useful.

Next it was off to Kent to the house of Miss Agatha Thompson, aunt of the unfortunate Mr. Burridge. We spent some little time asking around the area about her before going to the house itself.

“I did not realize someone could make themselves _that_ unpopular”, John observed as we walked down the drive to 'Sennen House'. “But why did you keep asking everyone about whether the woman was ever seen out with her lawyer?”

“It seems odd that someone who very clearly enjoyed causing chaos and misery all around her would not wish to do it in person”, I said. 

“I wonder if she will receive us?” John asked.

“I very much doubt it.”

He looked at me in surprise.

“Then why are we visiting her?” he asked.

“Because we are going to catch a criminal”, I said.

“You think that the aunt is a criminal?” he asked dubiously. “At her age?”

“Criminals can develop at many ages, as our recent encounter with a Miss Arabella Buckley showed”, I pointed out. “But I can honestly say that Miss Agatha Thompson has not committed any crimes.”

He looked at me sharply. Once again he knew me too well and could see that I was not telling him something. Even my most innocent smile did not convince him otherwise.

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Sennen House was one of those properties which was moderate in size but possessed of copious grounds and John was clearly more than a little surprised when, instead of knocking at the door like a regular caller, I chose to pick the lock. We were soon inside a hallway that, though bereft of life, was clearly scene to an imminent departure as several bags were piled up by the door. A lean middle-aged fellow emerged from a door to our right and I silently thanked the foresight that had made me advise John to have his gun ready for anything. Not that he needed telling these days.

“What are you doing in here, gentlemen?” the fellow said sniffily. “This is private property. I shall have you arrested.”

“I hardly think that the likes of _you_ , Monsieur Tappère, would resort to summoning an officer of the law”, I said smoothly. “Fortunately several of them will be here very soon to escort you to a prison cell.”

“On what grounds might they do that?” he demanded, and I could see that he was weighing up his chances of escape. I shook my head warningly at him.

“I really would not....”

Unfortunately he did. The fellow threw his bag at John and made a dash for the door, but his aim was awry and John was able to shoot him in a leg, stopping his flight before it had started. He screamed in agony as he fell to the floor.

“You had better treat him”, I said resignedly. “We do not wish to cheat the hangman.”

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“But I still do not understand”, Mr. Burridge said later, as we sat taking coffee back in Baker Street. 

I sucked pleasurably on an apple-flavoured barley-sugar – _not_ my fourth as someone later claimed – and explained.

“I had a fair idea of what was afoot from your excellent description of what had happened”, I said. “Yesterday I dispatched my friend Sergeant Baldur to your aunt's former house in north London which fortunately had not yet been sold on. Buried in the gardens out the back I am afraid that he found exactly what I had expected him to find.”

“What was that?” Mr. Burridge asked.

“Your aunt.”

He stared at me in horror. 

“But how?” he managed at last. “I mean, I spoke to her months back, after she moved here.”

“I am afraid that this all boils down to an unfortunate case of bad timing”, I said. “Monsieur Tappère knew that as lawyer to your aunt, he would be in a position to greatly enrich himself once Sir Peter Thompson had passed and the estate passed under his maladministration. As with anyone expecting to have extra money he doubtless got himself into debt that he knew he could resolve easily enough once, as they say, his ship came in. Hence he was prepared to put up with a garrulous old client who insisted on telling him everything he never wanted to know about her extended family, up to and including the fact that her nephew Cain is fond of apple-flavoured barley-sugar.”

“But then everything went horribly wrong because instead of coming in, his ship sank within sight of the quayside. We know that Sir Peter had a long illness before he died and that would have led Monsieur Tappère to think that the money was almost his. Except that shortly before the last of the Thompson baronets met his Maker, Miss Agatha Thompson suddenly fell ill and predeceased her nephew. Disaster! The money will all go to you you, and Monsieur Tappère will be ruined!”

“Except that he sees a cunning way out of his self-inflicted difficulties. His client was a virtual recluse, shut off from the rest of her family by her unpleasant attitude and not the sort of person that any of them would be inclined to visit unless they absolutely had to. He knows much of her family history, so he simply puts on some women's clothes and becomes his client.”

Mr. Burridge stared at me in horror.

“You mean that when I met my aunt she was... I mean he was.... ugh!”

“Ugh indeed”, I said. “Despite Mr. Dickens's excellent if often depressing writings, few ladies even of that age like to sit around in cobweb-infested darkened rooms waiting for their Maker, and it sounded very much like the person you were meeting did not want you to observe them too closely. His sole mistake was that he did not listen closely enough. Your aunt did as I said mention to him that it was _apple-flavoured_ barley-sugar that you liked best as a child, but he did not take it fully in. The gift of _regular_ barley-sugar to you was meant to reinforce the idea that this was indeed the aunt that you had – thankfully – not seen in years, but instead it did the opposite and compelled you to come to me.”

Mr. Burridge suddenly went pale.

“He did not kill her?”

I shook my head.

“Remember that it was not in his interests for your aunt to depart this life of sorrows”, I said. “Indeed it was her death that which caused all his problems. I am afraid that there will have to be a _post mortem_ , but fortunately I have certain friends in positions who can make sure it is all done with the minimum of fuss.”

“But what if he talks?” Mr. Burridge fretted. 

“That will be where we shall have to apply justice rather than the law”, I said. “If he is offered a reduced sentence, then he may keep quiet; we know that even prisons can somehow leak gossip. But it will be made clear to him that if the story of his impersonation does get out then the case will be re-opened with a view to a longer term.”

“You have been very helpful”, Mr. Burridge said. “Thank you very much.”

We stood and shook hands then left, although I noticed John covertly giving our client an extra bag of barley-sugars which was really not necessary. I had only eaten four of his.

All right, six.

Six-ish?

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Postscriptum: Sadly Monsieur Tappère did indeed have to have his silence purchased in the way that I had foretold, but he did not have long to revel in cheating the gaoler. He caught a bout of winter flu in his first year in gaol and followed his former client to the great beyond, where doubtless he had more than a little explaining to do. Since part of the price of his 'escape' had been that he assisted in straightening out the estate that he had been defrauding, Mr. Cain Burridge did receive his full inheritance.

I was also able to apply pressure in the right areas elsewhere and Doctor Kimmel quitted London soon after a run of 'unfortunate' scandals, enabling John to resume his treatment of Sergeant Baldur's wife just in time for her fifth and latest addition to the police ranks, a boy named for his father and their third son. Which was to indirectly prove important later on, as things turned out.

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_Notes:_   
_† Early railway journeys were exciting for all sorts of reasons, many of which might mean that your next journey could well be your last. Locomotives were often not powerful enough to meet the demands placed on them, so their crews would simply screw down a convenient nut on the safety-valve which gave them more power. The downside was, inevitably, sometimes they guessed wrong and the boiler exploded! The fictional Sir James Thompson's valves did not allow this and (after rather too many journeys ended with a bang!) such valves rapidly became standard for all railways._

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	5. Case 203: The Adventure Of The Tartan Threesome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. Sergeant Chatton Smith is fearful that his lover Inspector Fraser Macdonald is holding something from him (secrets, not the Other for which he never holds back, the horny bastard!). But as they so rightly say, secrets (like the Mighty Frayer) will out....

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Another of the many questions asked of us in the torrent of letters about my cases that poured into Baker Street during and after our time there concerned the fact that many of the people John and I helped came into our lives but once and were then never seen again. There were several reasons for this, one of which was that multiple cases made it more likely that someone might be hurt in some way by the publication of theirs or even a related case. In his extended canons of our adventures while we were retired my beloved remedied that somewhat by showing several such cases, but there were still some cases that had to be withheld. I am therefore recording this rather amusing little tale in the hope that it may see the light of day years hence.

Our readers will recall that on a number of occasions John and I helped our friend LeStrade's superior, Inspector Fraser Macdonald, who by this time had retired to his native Cumberland along with his lover Constable Chatton Smith, the latter just having made sergeant in the local constabulary up there. They had in turn assisted us in our Ulverston case (The Adventure Of King Athelstan) and we would have further dealings with them both, but it came as a surprise that cold January day when Sergeant Smith himself called in at Baker Street. Or rather, what was left of Sergeant Smith called in at Baker Street.

“We are pleased to see you, of course”, I smiled. “I take it that Mr. Macdonald is well?”

The young fellow lowered himself very carefully onto the couch, sighing thankfully once he was down. He looked as bad as Mr. Victor Trevor had after my twin Sherrinford had had his way with him a number of times that I had _not_ needed to be informed was twenty-three! Honestly, even the relatives that I liked were terrible!

“We took the night sleeper to London because I had to bring down some evidence in a case”, our visitor said, covering a yawn. “I did not get much sleep thanks to Fray. Seriously, whatever happened to the theory that stamina declines with age?”

John barely suppressed a snigger, and I glared warningly at him. Sergeant Smith had filled out a little from the wiry young fellow he had been when we had first encountered him, but his huge lover would still have easily made two of him. 

“Yet something is wrong”, I hazarded, “or you would not feel the need to call in on us without him.”

“He is in his meeting”, Sergeant Smith said, “so I am spared That for a while.”

I bit back a smile. I knew full well from certain letters that I had exchanged with the former inspector concerning a certain catalogue for a certain shop not far away from here that our guest's lover had implanted one of those personalized long plugs that fitted into the harness I had noticed that he was wearing. The plug even came engraved with the owner's initials; as I once said everything was available in London for a price! It was, I suppose, partly my fault that our guest was in such poor shape, although he looked better than John had the last time that I had used ours on him. Besides, our poor visitor would soon be discovering that going downstairs while wearing such a thing was a lot 'harder' than going up, especially with those strategically placed nodules on the device currently inside of him. He would be crying by the time he reached the ground floor; John certainly had been, and that had been before a short cab ride to Paddington Station (or as he had called it, 'the eternal journey into my nightmarish hell').

“But yes, something is wrong”, our doomed visitor sighed. “I do not think that Fray knows I am aware of it, but he is keeping something from me.”

“Not that much from you, by the look of things!” John snarked. He really was terrible at times. Our visitor blushed, shifted on the couch and let out a small whine before continuing. I did not smirk. 

I did not smirk much.

“About a month ago Tom, our postman, said that he had had a letter for Fray”, our visitor said, his eyes watering. “He remarked on it because it had been badly addressed and had come from Peebles in southern Scotland where he knows someone. I did not think anything of it at the time but Fray has been even more.... demanding ever since it came. I also know that he has gone to that town at least once without telling me why.”

“He is obviously not seeing someone else”, I said dismissively, “as he is far too righteous for such a thing. Has he any family in the area?”

Sergeant Smith shook his head.

“His only brother, Alex's father Andrew, still lives down in Warwickshire”, he said, “and his mother is here in London. There is also his half-sister Flora but as you know she lives up in Perth.”

I shuddered at the memory of that lady. She had come to London one time since The Early Hiatus had taken me through her home town and I had seriously owed Miss Clementine St. Leger for forewarning me and giving me the chance to 'have an urgent case somewhere far away'.

“I can make inquiries to confirm all that”, I said. “It is probably nothing. The poor fellow has suffered enough slings and arrows in his own life without adding to them.”

“There is something else, though”, Sergeant Smith said looking worried. “One of the boys at my station mentioned that he had seen Fray down in Maryport, some miles south of where we live, yet he never said anything to me that evening. And he had not been alone. He had been with three very handsome young men – and they had been going into a molly-house!”

“I cannot believe he would do such a thing”, I said. “In my line of business I have a good understanding of human nature, and he loves you far too much to stray.”

“We are returning on the night sleeper this evening”, Sergeant Smith sighed. “I had better go back to our hotel and hope that Fray's meeting is a long one.”

“Like something else of his!” sniggered someone nearby. I looked sharply at him and he gulped.

“I shall be off”, Sergeant Smith smiled. “I have a long, hard day ahead of me – as I think you do too, doctor!”

He rose carefully with only one more small cry, thanked us, walked carefully to the door and was gone to face the terrible torture of the stairs. I turned back to John and grinned evilly.

“I think”, I said slowly, “that it is time for _your_ harness!”

That whine was so damn satisfying!

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Sergeant Chatton Smith was not the only man in London to be totally wrecked by his lover's demands. After having dispatched a couple of telegrams, one of which was of course to the ineffable Miss St. Leger, I had taken John to our room and then taken John. Three times.

And then applied The Harness.

And the vibrating cock-ring.

And my own personalized and engraved dildo (one has to support local businesses, after all).

And then made him dress again and sit in our room writing, while I enjoyed every little whine each time he moved. 

I was so bad! But at least he benefited from my other telegram, which was to order in from Branksome's where he had enthused over their new 'Death By Chocolate' offering. What was left of him was so grateful that he graciously allowed me some of that manly embracing thing that I liked and that he graciously tolerated. I even refrained from smirking.

Mostly refrained.

Look, I _thought_ about refraining. That counts!

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Miss St. Leger came through for me with her usual speed and I had an answer to my inquiry that evening.

“The inspector cannot be seeing someone else, surely?” John said, as incredulous as me as to such a likelihood.

“Not exactly”, I said mysteriously. “I think we shall have to follow him and Sergeant Smith to Cumberland to sort this matter out.”

He nodded, then his eyes widened. He had just realized.... a very bumpy cab-ride to Euston Station in his condition. He whined in terror.

“Indeed”, I grinned darkly. “I do hope that I can find a way to keep myself..... entertained.”

He shuddered most deliciously.

“When we go _tomorrow_ evening”, I added.

The sigh of relief was loud indeed. I smiled knowingly. I had Plans for that journey that would ensure that his relief was short-lived.

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Two days later we alighted from the night sleeper at Carlisle Citadel Station. Well, when I say _we_ alighted I really mean that I alighted and John limped off after me and then sat complaining about damnably hard station benches for some ten minutes before he managed to traverse the several miles (ten yards) across the platform to the Maryport & Carlisle Railway train for Aspatria whither we had gone in the Slipshod Woman case some nine years back. I did not remind John of that time gap, nor did I as he later claimed 'strut'. 

In the highly unlikely event that I did the latter, I had just cause!

Poor John napped for most of the journey but at least was more or less recovered by the time we reached our destination and hired a carriage for our trip to Allonby on the coast. It would have been good if we could have met the gentlemen whose attendance was required sooner but unfortunately one of them had a dental appointment that morning so they could not join us until later. I checked us into the oversized hotel where John immediately collapsed untidily onto the bed.

“Sergeant Smith is off today”, I told him, “so we are meeting him late this morning. I do not suppose you feel up to.....”

He gave me such a look! Grinning ( _not_ smirking) I carefully undid his shirt and was still not smirking when I opened his trousers and found him already hard, his cock straining against the cock-ring. I worked him even harder until he was ready, then unclipped the ring.

“Come!” I said quietly.

Come he did, arching his back and erupting mightily with a keening wail until he was spent. I fetched a cloth to wipe him down then set the alarm for a couple of hours' time. A nap would be beneficial to him, or at least his chances of standing for any length of time.

“And cut with the smirking!” he grumbled.

“I shall think about it”, I promised. “Meanwhile you... can think about the _long_ journey home!”

He shuddered, but was asleep in barely a minute.

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We duly woke at a quarter to eleven and after some very careful application of our cooling unguent (which fortunately I had just happened to have had in my pocket and which most definitely did not elicit any coos of pleasure from 'someone'), my love was able to make it downstairs only complaining slightly as to our room being so far up on the first floor. There was a small restaurant a little way along from the hotel so we went there for a late breakfast, and I noted the waitress giving us a dewy-eyed look as John instinctively forked over half his bacon to me. He clearly caught her and turned to glare at her, then yelped in pain.

Still not smirking. And contrary to what a certain writer later claimed, it was not possible to strut while seated.

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We proceeded to Mr. Macdonald's house, a fair-sized property on the seafront near which three gentlemen were waiting for us. As I had expected they were almost identical to each other, all tall muscular red-haired fellows of about twenty years of age and looking like a bunch of semi-tamed Celtic warriors on their day off. They were I thought very much like younger versions of Inspector Macdonald and could have easily have been his sons. Which they both were and they were not.

“Ross, Roderick and Rourke”, I smiled. “Thank you for coming, gentlemen.”

John looked at me curiously but now was not the time to explain things. Matters would become clear soon enough. I went up the steps and knocked at the door. It was opened by a very dishevelled but thankfully dressed Sergeant Smith, who looked curiously (and dazedly) at our little party. He was definitely listing slightly as well.

“Mr. Holmes?” he asked.

A much taller and larger figure swiftly appeared behind him. Mr. Fraser Macdonald, looming over his lover and looking first at me and then at the three gentlemen behind me. He visibly gulped at the sight of them.

“There was never going to be an easy way to do this”, I said, “so in the words of the old saying I feel that it is better to rip the plaster straight off. May we come inside please, gentlemen?”

Sergeant Smith looked curiously at his suddenly pale lover but led the way to the main room. It was quite large, but even so it seemed filled with the three newcomers who sat next to each other on the couch.

“What is happening?” Sergeant Smith asked, sitting almost on top of his lover. “Fray?”

His lover wrapped a beefy arm around him, clearly nervous at developments, but said nothing.

“You asked me to look into why Mr. Macdonald here was apparently keeping something from you”, I said.

“I do not keep things from Chas”, the larger man said gruffly. “I certainly kept nothing from him last night!”

The hawk-faced younger man blushed. All three of the newcomers sniggered.

“But you did keep a certain piece of your past from him”, I said. “To be fair, you yourself did not become aware of it until last month when certain events necessitated a hurried trip to the Scottish March.”

Sergeant Smith paled.

“Be strong”, I said comfortingly. “It is not what you think. Mr. Macdonald?”

The huge man sighed – I noted that he kept his lover very firmly in place, something that the sergeant seemed more than happy with from the way he leaned into his lover looking adoringly at him – and nodded.

“I am sorry, Chas”, he said. “It is not an easy tale to tell.”

“I love you”, Sergeant Smith said simply. “Go on.”

_(There may have been more than one manly sniff at that point, at least one of which came from a certain medical scribe. I coughed for no particular reason)._

“When I started out in the Service”, Mr. Macdonald began, “it was under a sergeant here. Alan Macdonald, no relation. It was his nobility of character which drew me to him although he was married so.... well.”

I felt even sorrier for the poor fellow. Having been forced into an unhappy marriage after that; at least he had his true love now.

“Alan was married to a shrew called Miss Ambrosia Rudely”, Mr. Macdonald went on. “Like me it was an arranged marriage; I will not call her a lady for she was none, not by a country mile. It was a terrible match and I do not know how they managed to have three sons; Ross and the twins here.”

Sergeant Smith looked across at the three other visitors. Now they were all together they looked even more like the former inspector's sons. Wisely I did not say anything.

“Alan's excuse for a wife went and left him for a Russian businessman, going to the fellow's country”, the former inspector said. “A good riddance all told, but Alan was never the same again. He moved to Peebles with the boys and lived with his sister Petronella, who helped raise them. Then a month ago I got a letter from her. Alan was dying and was asking to see me. I had to go.”

“Of course you did”, Sergeant Smith said, somehow wrapping his lover even more tightly around him. “Go on, my love.”

The former inspector took a deep breath and looked across at the three young men. Mr. Ross Macdonald spoke up.

“Late 'Seventy-Three I was dumb enough to get drunk at a party with a girl who..... well, she knew what she wanted”, he said awkwardly. “I did not even know until nine months later when her parents came round and told me that she had died in childbirth and they wanted nothing to do with, in their words, 'my bastard spawn'.”

His brother Rourke nudged him.

“That was six months back”, Mr. Ross Macdonald said. “Our father was ailing even then so I said that he should name the bairn; the boy's grandparents had not even bothered with that. So he named him for someone he had always admired for their honesty and strength of character. He is Fraser Macdonald.”

The former inspector whimpered and somehow pulled his lover even closer. We waited for him to speak.

“I met Alan and the boys”, he said at last, his voice somewhat unsteady. “He.... he said that if only things had been different.... well. Ross was not yet twenty-one and Alan had an elder sister Drusilla – he called her The Dragon – with enough connections and cash to blow us all out of court and take the bairn.”

“There was only one thing to be done. Petronella's husband Paddy was a lawyer so he was able to sort things out for us; he drew up all the paperwork and I formally adopted the boys. Alan wanted to come down to his old stamping-ground one more time but the journey was beyond him. He died eight days later, but at least he knew I was caring for his – now my – boys. I sent him photographs of their place and their letters of acceptance into the force; I had had to call in a few favours but it was worth it when Petronella told me they had reached him the day before he died.”

He was clearly finding this very difficult. He shuddered as Sergeant Smith reached up and kissed him lightly on the lips. I wondered that the younger man could breathe what with how tightly he was being held.

“You did the right thing, my love”, he said. “As always. But why did you not confide in me?” 

“Mr. Macdonald did rather more than just visit his suddenly-acquired family”, I said. “He helped them acquire a house in Maryport into which they are currently moving.”

“Because you wanted them near”, Sergeant Smith guessed. “I still do not see why you did not tell me, Fray. I would have welcomed them here; surely you knew that?”

Mr. Ross Macdonald spoke up.

“Father knew that we would benefit from being together”, he said. “We do work as a team.”

“What do you do?” Sergeant Smith asked. Mr. Ross Macdonald grinned.

“We are as Father said all in the service”, the other man said. “We all work in the molly-house down there. The Tartan Threesome.”

Mr. Smith looked at him and his brothers in horror.

“But you cannot all be.... I mean....”

“And we love our dear old dad”, Mr. Rourke Macdonald spoke up.

“Not so much of the old, Rourke”, his father grumbled.

“Which is why we wanted to make sure that he has the best”, Mr. Roderick Macdonald said, looking pointedly at Sergeant Smith. “Mr. Holmes told us a lot of what has happened to him, and we want him to be happy.”

“I am happy”, his father said, his arms still very firmly around Sergeant Smith. “Though just seeing you all here makes me feel my age, boys.”

The three of them all sniggered.

“We had better leave you all”, I smiled. “This molly-house is in Maryport, you said?”

There was an angry growl from someone nearby, even if said someone was not yet fully capable of complicated movements yet.

“We do”, Mr. Ross Macdonald said, smiling lasciviously. “We owe you a huge debt of thanks for this, Mr. Holmes. _Anything_ that we can do in return, just ask.”

Another angry growl. Time to go. We said out goodbyes and I led the way out.

“You had better not have been serious back there”, John grumbled. “Three of them. Honestly!”

“Four including the ever-energetic inspector”, I said innocently. “I would wager that they all look even more attractive in their kilts; even more so out of them. Perhaps in our next trip North of the Border we might look into purchasing some for ourselves?”

He was suddenly having difficulty in breathing. 

“Plus as we both have some Scots blood we would of course have to wear nothing underneath”, I added slyly.

The breathing became even more ragged.

“Which is a coincidence”, I said smugly, “because I am not wearing any underwear right now!”

He was already racing ahead of me back to our hotel, with only the occasional whine at the discomfort.

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We did indeed spend two more days on the Cumberland Coast, during which we managed several Highland Flings despite being the wrong side of the Border. But John did tell me that Cumberland had once been part of Scotland†, which proves that history has its uses.

The following week we had a letter from Sergeant Smith. Apparently his lover had had his sons round and they had all..... well, that remark about four consecutive rounds of Cumberland sausage was quite uncalled for, I felt. And Sergeant Smith did concede that his lover (and his lover's sons!) had had the consideration to do this to him on a Saturday so the wrecked sergeant had had the Sabbath to recover. Even so walking to work on the Monday had been utter agony and certain people in the county constabulary really could tone down the smirking a bit. 

I told John that I quite agreed. Smirking was a Bad Thing. I had no idea why he rolled his eyes like that.

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_Notes:_   
_† Cumberland was the last permanent geographical addition to England when King William the Second annexed it in 1093, unless one counts the final reconquest of the town of Berwick-upon-Tweed in 1482._

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	6. Interlude: Too Much Of A Good Thing?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. Three into one makes sore!

_[Narration by Sergeant Chatton Smith]_

I stared at Fray, momentarily struck dumb.

“You seriously thought that I would think you... you and.... _with your own sons?”_

“Adopted sons”, he pointed out, not looking at me in that wonderfully cute way of his. “Of course not; when the boys and I realized that we were all on the same team we all thought..... it was horrible!”

I frowned, remembering what his sons - _his sons!_ \- had said.

“So what did they mean about them all coming round to check up on us, then?” I asked.

Impressively for someone of his skin tone he managed to turn even redder. 

“They thought that I..... you..... you know.”

“They thought that I might wish to wave my arms about like a windmill gone wrong?” I teased. 

He scowled but still did not look fully at me. I stared at him, utterly perplexed. What _was_ this all about?

“They asked if they might... sort of..... try you out. To see if you were good enough for me!”

I stared at him in shock. He always looked me in the eye when speaking to me and this was very unlike him. Finally a light came on in my mind and I had to suppress a smile. Life really was full of surprises, and I guessed that I was about to be _very_ full of Cumberland sausage à la Macdonald!

“You want to watch”, I said slowly. “You want to sit there watching your own sons....”

“Adopted sons”, he cut in.

“Still your own sons”, I said, “taking me one after the other?”

He still would not look me in the eye. Ye Gods, there was _more?_

“Rod and Rourke... they do this thing when they take someone together”, he muttered. “Both of them in..... you know. Then Ross... he jerks the fellow off at the same time.

I gently lifted his lowered (and very, very red) face, and looked him squarely in the eyes.

“Well well well!” I said. “Fraser Jameson Macdonald, you dirty old man!”

He somehow contrived to blush even more. 

“When can they 'fit' me in?”

Oh that look of pure and adoring love! I loved this man so much! Besides, three young Frays..... who needed to live to old age?

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Three days later I was asking myself another question; just who went and moved the damn police station so far from the damn house? And why did people at work smirk so damn much? Thank the Lord I had a day mostly sat down, where I could recover more from all that I had been through.

Then Fray popped by for another 'unscheduled meeting'.....

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	7. Case 204: The Adventure Of The Freckled Frieze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. A friend of Sherlock's – in truth, more family than friend - would quite like to know why there are suddenly pictures of him about to go on display in an art gallery. Naked pictures! The great detective tracks down the culprit in this 'spotty' adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned elsewhere as the case of the artist known as Wainwright.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

It had been a difficult thing, being dead.

For John's sake more than any other reason including my own survival, my death at 'Reichenbach' had had to look convincing which had meant three years on the run without the man I loved more than life itself. I had travelled under a number of aliases while Luke, Carl and Miss St. Leger were my contact points in England. In between disposing of certain pestilential Moriarty relatives and making the world a better place I had intended to keep clear of my homeland, lest I endanger the man I loved more than life itself. But even with the best of intentions matters had not quite worked out that way.

There were two small incidents that occurred among my acquaintances during those dark times, one minor and one major. The first was a small matter arising from our good friend Sergeant Valiant LeStrade up in Westmorland; in a letter he wrote to John expressing his condolences on my passing he mentioned that his cake-loving uncle was having problems over the latter's neighbour who worked at a paint factory and mixed his own extremely malodorous paints in his shed, right next to their mutual fence. Worse, the selfish neighbour knew the local councillors who should have prevented such behaviour, hence nothing had been done. I was able to get Luke to talk to the necessary people in order to put matters to rights. There may or may not have been the odd stink bomb or eight planted in the inconsiderate neighbour's house as well. What goes around comes around, they say.

The second matter arising was rather more serious and necessitated my personal involvement. It happened only days after my brief and almost certainly unwise return to England in 'Ninety-Three during which John actually caught sight of me at the unveiling of the Anteros statue in Piccadilly Circus. It was my own stupid fault; Luke had said that my love would be joining the family for the event and like a dying man in the desert having caught sight of a distant oasis, I could not help but take in the beauty of the man for the first time in over two years. Thankfully I was in disguise – Luke had insisted on that - and he distracted John long enough for me to slip away.

I may or may not have cried that night over the unfairness of it all.

News of my passing had not reached quite all our acquaintances, and shortly after the encounter in Piccadilly a letter had arrived from Lord Theobald Hawke down in Wiltshire that he was concerned over his nephew and heir Mr. Harry Buckingham (Lord Hawke had as mentioned previously been very ill and by this time he rarely left his Wiltshire home, which presumably was why he had been unaware of my 'passing'). I had decided to decamp to the Isle of Wight for some time as I had felt that the extra distance would deter me from yet again foolishly endangering the man that I loved, but given the Hawke family – my family now – and their seeming propensity to attract ill-fortune like a magnet attracts iron filings, I first went to see my noble half-brother. 

The ailing Lord Theobald had been worried over an apparent threat to divulge his cover-up to the newspapers, but some rapid inquiries that I undertook established that it had been merely a misreading of the letter involved. As the nobleman was clearly not long for this world and could I felt be trusted, I decided to doff my disguise (although I did not divulge our sibling status) and I swore that I would keep a close eye on his nephew for him. He died only two days after that meeting and I can only hope that my promise – which I was now about to have to honour not for the last time – gave him peace in his final hours on this earth. 

The new Lord Harry Hawke, third of that name† and as the intelligent reader can work out my half-nephew, was thirty-two years of age in the year that this story is set. He had married a lady called Miss Alice Smith of whom I knew little except that John had said she had a reputation as something of a gold-digger, came from South Africa and was some thirteen years younger than the husband she had ensnared when she was just seventeen (John's words; he had scowled when I had muttered 'miaow'). I assumed that she was probably not of great consequence socially otherwise John would surely have remarked to me about it from those social pages that he hardly ever glanced at except if the newspaper just happened to be open when he just happened to be passing it. Every day. 

Not long after Lord Theobald's passing Lord and Lady Hawke had had twin sons Tobias and Trelawney, the latter of whom would also require my assistance in later years, and she was now expecting their next child due some time in November. I could not know then that her marriage to my half-nephew would have considerable repercussions for myself some years hence. Indeed I was more distracted by the vision of male beauty before me as the nobleman was indeed the image of his true father, a most beautiful person both inside and out. 

I had remarked on this to John just before my half-nephew was shown up and he had coughed several times. At least he _claimed_ that it was a cough. Interesting......

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“It is most definitely me, sir”, the new Lord Hawke said, clearly vexed as he toyed with his blond curly hair. He gestured to the catalogue that he had brought with him. “I have a pattern of freckles along my left breast that resembles the Plough and it matches perfectly to this brazen fellow. Worse, the fellows with whom I work out with at the gymnasium will know that!”

He blushed almost as prettily as John did when.... no, not really the time.

“This is all your mother's fault!” my beloved muttered unhelpfully. 

I sighed, but before I could say anything our visitor spoke.

“What do you mean by that, doctor?” he asked.

John pointed to the depictions of some ten large drawings which in real life were each about two foot square and arranged as a long frieze. Each showed a gentleman going about his daily business in a London street, at a bank, on an omnibus, in a cab, walking in the park.... all perfectly mundane except for one small detail. Or perhaps one rather large detail; the gentleman in question was stark naked and not even carefully positioned to hide..... that. The worst thing was that John was right!

No, scratch that. The worst thing was that he _knew_ that he was right, and all because of that story that I had made him read, damnation! Mother was currently going through another of her historical phases (artwork again; after 'Emmerdale Farm' I shuddered every time I saw Constable's 'Haywain' which great work I had eventually come to like!). Recently she had written 'Man Alive', a graphic story about how Rodin's statue 'The Thinker' had decided that it was time to stop thinking and start doing, which meant strolling around London uncaring of the fact that he was _sans apparel_. Clearly some artist had read my mother's work and, rather than committing themselves to the nearest asylum as would have been the sensible option, they had somehow been 'inspired'. Ugh!

“My mother writes the sort of fictional stories that give people nightmares”, I admitted. “She might well be the inspiration for this.”

I felt that he would have been quite justified in being most upset over this but I had misjudged my relative.

“Your mother is 'Fidelia Raleigh'?” he exclaimed. “Oh I am so, _so_ sorry! My own mother is one of those ladies who likes her stories and she actually read some to me when I was growing up. Lord alone knows how I turned out so normal; I still shake every time I see a bowl of prunes.”

I was grateful for his understanding (and especially for his not going into detail about whatever horror that story had been!). Which of course left the small matter – well, the rather large matter in this case - of naked pictures of him soon being on display in a major London gallery.

“Might we not try to persuade the gallery to withdraw them?” John suggested.

“That would be disastrous”, I said although I felt bad at the way my comments made my relative's face fall. “Not that I would be disinclined to take such an approach, my lord, but you know what the general public is like. Once they are told that they cannot see something then they will strive doubly hard to get a look at it. Someone from the gallery would surely talk at such an attempt or worse, leak a picture to the newspapers. You are sure that this is your good self?”

“I recognized at least three of the pictures”, he sighed. “The only redeeming factor, such as it is, is that these are small and the details can only be seen under a magnifying glass. That is most definitely the Round Table Club and my fellow club members will recognize that; I will not be able to use the place again! The bank is Lloyd's just along from there; you can make out the unusual curved steps into the place. The street is the one containing my London house although fortunately one cannot see the place itself or I might never get to show my face in the capital!”

“I do not think that it is your _face_ that they will be looking at”, John said again unhelpfully, eliciting a even deeper blush. He was right – our friend Sweyn would be extending an invitation over all that extending and it was John's damn fault for making me think like that – but now was so not the time.

“It is only a small private gallery”, I said consolingly. “Still, if word gets around it might still draw a sizeable crowd.”

John barely suppressed a snigger at the word 'sizeable'. He was not being very helpful today. There would be Consequences for that later and it would serve him right if I decided to make him suffer a long and bumpy cab ride immediately after them. With the inaptly-named pleasurer inside of him.

It was probably bad of me in enjoying him shake when he caught my sharp look. Oh well.

“Have you tried to contact the artist?” I asked, not smirking at someone's evident discomfiture.

“I do not really wish to approach this 'M. R. S. Wainwright' myself”, the nobleman sighed. “I fear that he might be the sort of fellow to take advantage of such a move to gain even more publicity. And....”

He tailed off looking decidedly awkward. John looked at him curiously.

“Because this artist clearly knows rather a lot about you”, I said, “and is therefore most likely someone of your acquaintance.”

He nodded glumly.

“I have not of course told dear Lizzie”, he said. “She is expecting and the last thing she needs right now is any extra stress.”

_(For the record my relative was not into bigamy; Lady Hawke was for some reason not enamoured of her first name and preferred to be known by her middle one. Each to their own, I supposed)._

“How did you find out about all this?” I asked.

“From the only other person - _I hope!_ \- who knows about this sorry mess”, he said. “Callington; he brought me the catalogue.”

“Who is this 'Callington'?” John asked.

“Brass‡ Callington, my secretary”, the nobleman said. “His wife is a cleaner at the gallery and I presume that she showed him this horror. He recognized the steps and used a magnifying glass to check.... ahem, other details, after which he came straight to me.”

“Is he trustworthy?” I asked. 

“Sound as a bell”, Lord Hawke said firmly. “I would trust him with my life. He was as mortified as I was by the whole business; it was he who suggested that I might bring you in on it. Is there anything that you can do?”

I thought for a moment. Whatever way this case did work out, it was most definitely going to require careful handling.

“I can see _some_ ways to proceed with an investigation”, I said. “I shall need to speak to your secretary to start with. Is he available?”

Lord Hawke smiled.

“This morning is a rare time occasion he is not my shadow”, he said. “His wife too is expecting and as I knew that he had family visiting yesterday I told him to take today off. He resisted even that, he is such a good fellow, and we settled that he would have the morning at home then catch up on my paperwork this afternoon.”

“I think given that he would likely feel constrained if you were present, my lord, it might be better if I were to see him at his home”, I said. “If you leave us his address we shall call on him and talk to him there.”

“You do not think that he might lie?” the nobleman asked incredulously. “He is as honest as the day is long, I am telling you!”

I smiled at his defence of his servant. At times like these he reminded me so much of his ill-starred father, and he had gone and named his eldest son after the fellow as well. I hoped.... well, we would have to just watch over them all as much as possible. Life was it seemed an eternal struggle.

“I very much doubt that he would _lie”_ , I said trying to shake off the ghosts of the past, “but the more relaxed a person is the more revealing they tend to be, in my experience. It is my belief that there may be some fact – possibly something that seems insignificant – that he does know and might not even consider worth mentioning. I only wish to keep him at his ease, sir.”

“That is good”, Lord Hawke smiled, relaxing again. “Good men like him are hard to find; I almost missed falling over him this morning. As you say, the small things are often important.”

“One rather large 'thing' in this instance!” John muttered. 

Poor Lord Hawke turned bright red.

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The nobleman wrote his secretary's address on a notepad, thanked us for our time and left. 

“He lives about a quarter of an hour away”, John said looking at the address. “Shall we go now?”

I shook my head,

“I have a telegram to send first”, I said. “I shall walk to the post-office and be back in a little under ten minutes . Then we shall have an hour before we leave for Paddington.”

“Why the delay?” he asked curiously.

“Because in the time I am away you will divest yourself of all your clothing and then sit yourself stark naked on the couch, just like the seventh frieze of our latest client”, I said calmly, possibly enjoying his shocked expression rather more than was seemly. “When I come back I will be doing everything I can up to and including sucking and jerking you off to make you totally lose your composure.”

He was still whining when I left, the smile on my face a mile wide.

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“John? Are you ready?”

One very naked and physically broken English city doctor glared up at me from where he lay prone in the chair where I had just made him come three times, the last of which had involved fucking him from underneath and then inserting the plug which was still inside of him. His breathing was perhaps a tad fast and most definitely irregular, but I supposed that what was left of him was happy. He likely did not have the muscle co-ordination to manage a smile.

“You broke me!” he moaned. “How can I go out like this?”

“That is an idea”, I mused. “Perhaps when I find this great artist I could ask them to do a frieze based on you. All I would need surely is someone obliging who can photograph you naked....”

His breathing was getting even faster. I smiled in reassurance.

“You have ten minutes to recover”, I said consolingly. “I shall go down to Mrs. Hudson and see if she had any of that delicious chocolate trifle that you like going spare.”

I did not mention the knowing look that I had got when I had spoken to the landlady earlier. Clearly she had known from my expression what had happened upstairs and equally clearly that had been the pistol I had seen on the table behind her. Plus John would have been mortified. Well, even more mortified.

He moaned as he rolled in an attempt to get up then yelped as the plug caught him unawares.

I allowed myself another smirk.

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I held my love's hand all the way to Paddington. It was January and he was cold. Although the look of adoring love that he gave me as he snuggled into me – yes, it was snuggling! - was almost too much.

The glare I got when I helped him out of the cab at our destination and the yelp as he stepped down onto the hard pavement were also adorable, but I kept quiet about those.

Mr. Brass Callington lived in a small, well-kept terraced house not far from the Great Western Railway terminus, and as his master had said both he and his wife were home. She was presumably attending to something out the back of the house for he was looking after a young boy of about three years of age and a baby girl when we arrived. He looked incredibly relieved to see us, and I pretty much knew why.

“Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson”, he said, bowing to us. “This is an honour.”

I looked around the small room.

“I take it that your good lady wife is busy with her.... work?” I asked innocently.

John looked at me curiously and then at our host who had blushed fiercely at what had seemed an innocuous question.

“You are too generous to trifle with me, sir”, Mr. Callington said. “You have to help me, please!”

“We have to help you how?” John asked, confused.

“We have to help him out of a situation where his good lady wife is producing nude artwork of his employer”, I said calmly.

John spluttered at that.

_“What?”_

“I so hoped that you would be able to do something”, the secretary moaned. “Your mother started all this, after all!”

John looked even more confused. I smiled at him.

“'M. R. S. Wainwright' was an invention”, I said, “to protect the gentle sensibilities of the Victorian public from the idea that a lady had ever seen _that_ much of a gentleman outside of the bedroom. Take just the letters and you get 'Mrs.'. Your wife created those works of art inspired, I will admit, by my dear mother's literary efforts, and the gallery where she works then went and snatched them up.”

“She actually made me read the stories they were based on!” the secretary shuddered. “There is not enough beer in the world to get that out of my poor head! 'Sides, we needed the money!”

“What money? John asked.

“I am sure that the gallery paid handsomely for your wife's 'art'”, I said. “As well as your own.”

The poor fellow had somehow contrived to go even redder. I felt quite sorry for him.

“Lord Hawke is a fine figure of a man”, I said, 'missing' the sharp look that that remark elicited from a medical personage in the vicinity, “and you yourself have artistic talent in that you sketched him during the time that you worked with him. Your wife saw the sketches and decided to make a frieze out of them – except that 'inspired' as she was by my mother's terrible writings she removed poor Lord Hawke's clothing, even in that one when he is, ahem, 'standing out' at the athletics track.”

“She got that from 'Gods And Men'!” Mr. Callington moaned. “I can't read about athletics events in the paper, especially the damn pole-vault!”

“I think that I see a way out here”, I said, wincing at his words. “I am sure that Lord Hawke can be fund the purchase of this work before it reaches the gallery, and that your wife can provide something rather less incriminating.”

“But he will sack me when he finds out!” Mr. Callington protested.

“I shall tell him that I used a contact to purchase the work on the promise of anonymity”, I said. “Also that the artist has promised not to portray him in that way ever again. I am sure that he would accept that.”

The poor fellow gasped his relief.

“However”, I said, “there is one thing that you – or at least your wife - could do for me personally.”

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Lord Hawke was delighted to obtain his incriminating pictures from the artist known as Wainwright (Mrs. Daisy Callington's maiden name) and even more delighted when I was able to assure him that such a thing would never happen again. Some subtle pressure from the right quarters persuaded the gallery to commission some of Mrs. Callington's less, ahem, revealing work which, to her and her husband's surprise, rapidly became sought after and enabled them to eventually move to a larger house. She very kindly paid me back for my kindness with a drawing she had done from a photograph of a masked gentleman sitting stark naked in a chair with only a conveniently placed book to cover his modesty – another gentleman with a quite distinct pattern of freckles.

John blushed so prettily every time I reminded him of it. And as it turned out we would see Lord Hawke again (clothed, again) quite soon – the very next week in fact!

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_Notes:_   
_† Lord Harry Hawke I (1720-1787), the fourth Lord Hawke, saw the estate through much of the previous century as his father predeceased him and his grandfather died when he was but eleven years of age. A dull but financially competent fellow who made the family much richer. His grandson Lord Harry Hawke II (1778-1828) the sixth Lord Hawke was a very different character, a Regency Buck who may well have undone all that good work. Fortunately the Fates delayed his accession until his father had died in 1820, by which time Lord Harry had married Lady Charlotta Hawke who very firmly kept him in his place. Some men in history were so whipped!_   
_‡ Named after Brass Crosby (1725-1793), a Stockton-on-Tees lawyer who became Lord Mayor of London. His standing up to parliament when they tried to prosecute a London printer who had actually dared to print their proceedings landed him in the Tower of London, but the city mobs rioted such that the judges refused to hear his case and he had to be let out. This led to the phrase 'bold as Brass'._

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	8. Case 205: The Adventure Of The Solitary Cyclist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. A lady repeatedly sees the ghost of a man long killed in a railway accident then meets the same end herself – but is the killer more corporeal than spiritual? Sherlock and John may be too late to stop a murder but at least they can still deliver justice.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson. M.D.]_

Foreword: In this fast-changing world of ours the Brill (formally the Oxford & Aylesbury) Tramway, mentioned in this story, became the most outlying part of the the newly-formed London Underground system three years back only to close last year (1935). Its plan to provide a second route between London, the Chilterns and Oxford had never materialized; rival lines grabbed much of its business and the burgeoning road industry took the rest. Westcott Station is now quiet, with no sign of either the unfortunate accident or the horrible crime that both happened there.

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I have said before how it was a rare event for someone we had helped in one case to reappear in our busy lives. So when this particular caller came I at first thought it was merely pursuant to the small (in one sense) matter that we had helped him with only last week and that this was a final meeting to resolve matters. Instead it would send us once more to rural Buckinghamshire, this time for a case involving a deadly murder committed for the basest of reasons. 

The gentleman in question was Sherlock's unknowing 'half-nephew' Lord Harry Hawke, whom he had recently saved from the embarrassment of nude friezes of him being displayed in a London galley. He was one of the most good-looking fellows in the capital, a fact of which I was not the least bit jealous and that had better damn well not be a smirk from a certain consulting detective in the vicinity or I would pou.... I would not be happy.

Lord Hawke sat down in the fireside chair (damnation, he even moved elegantly!) and began.

“I must first thank you for your recent help over those friezes”, he said. “My secretary still shudders if I mention them in his presence.”

 _As well he might_ , I thought wryly, _since they were the work of the same secretary's wife from some drawings that he himself had done of his employer! Oops!_

“I am however here today on another matter”, Lord Hawke said, “one which I feel is of some urgency. It concerns my nephew, Henry's son Hereward.”

_(Even a family-tree makes the Hawkes look more like a thicket with issues, so I shall try to explain. The gentleman before us was, as far as he knew, the son of Mary Hawke (Sherlock's half-sister) and her husband Henry Buckingham, the latter having administered the Hawke estates during the long minority of the late Lord Theobald. In truth our visitor was the illegitimate offspring of Mary's brother the ill-starred Lord Tobias, who had so dazzled the young Sherlock and had left him his pipe and deer-stalker hat. Hence this gentleman could not normally have inherited the title, but his 'new' father and mother had successfully passed him off as their own issue so therefore the next in line, and two years back he had become the eleventh Lord Hawke._

_Five years after his birth, his parents, who had wanted a second son, had been able to adopt a distant cousin who became rather confusingly another Henry Buckingham (Henry had been his original name and he had expressed a strong desire to keep it, to which his new parents had acceded. Young Henry had married in 'Eighty-Four and had had but one son, the aforementioned Hereward, the following year. A complicated family tree indeed, but at least it was free of any lounge-lizard brothers!)._

“He is not in any danger?” Sherlock asked, nodding for some reason.

“He is not”, Lord Hawke said, “but a fellow schoolmate of his may be. Herry attends Aylesbury Grammar School – our house is most fortunately within walking distance of the school – and his friend is one Lion Black. An unusual name I know; Herry says that it was a family one. Lion's father Mr. Lance Black is the stationmaster at Westcott on the Brill Tramway in Buckinghamshire. You should also know that Mr. Lance Black's father is Lord Kessock the government minister.”

I winced at the mention of that unpleasant member of the House of Lords. Although the Conservative-Unionist government of Lord Salisbury was then possessed of a very comfortable majority Lord Kessock was their representative who had several links to the 'Irish bloc' of members, and who might make things difficult for them if they felt so inclined. 

“What is young Master Black's problem?” Sherlock asked. 

The nobleman took a deep breath.

“He says that he has reason to believe his father is about to murder his mother!”

We both stared at him in shock.

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“Lion is a decent lad”, our visitor said, “but painfully shy. Fortunately Herry is great at charming people when he wants to, just like young Toby. And of course my poor late uncle.”

 _You mean, 'your real father'_ , I silently corrected. I could see that for all his impassive expression, Sherlock was thinking much the same.

“Herry said that this should be all you need”, the nobleman said, taking a folder out of his brief-case and handing it to Sherlock. “A map of the area where the Blacks live, descriptions of all the key people and even the local history. Some of it I thought a bit much but he has read all your stories in that magazine, doctor, and told me very firmly that an investigator needed _all_ the facts. It is incredibly thorough for a boy barely ten years of age, although of course I did not say that to him.”

“I shall soon have a most worthy rival, it seems”, Sherlock smiled looking through the papers. “This is very useful. Kindly convey my thanks to your nephew for his thoroughness.”

“I shall let you examine it”, our visitor said. “I am staying the night at my club so if you need clarification or anything, you can send me a message there. Will you take the case?”

“This does indeed seem as serious as your son's friend thinks”, Sherlock said. “Yes we shall most definitely investigate matters for him. It is always better to prevent a crime rather than to have to sort out everything after it has been committed.”

Sadly we were not fated to achieve that.

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We could have made Buckinghamshire that evening but unfortunately Sherlock, for his sins, had to go and visit his parents. Worse, his mother had threatened (although she used the term 'promised' for some strange reason) to have her latest story 'Too Many Cooks' ready, and since her husband was paying my friend Peter Greenwood to advise that the nobleman should not sit listening intently to anything for long periods of time 'due to stress', that meant that someone else had to suffer.

Sherlock had actually asked if I would like to join him, and I had given him such a look! But when he returned ashen-faced and muttering something about cheese-boards, I had graciously allowed him some of that manly embracing that he liked and which eventually managed to help him stop shaking. After an hour or so and eight barley-sugars.

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We were up early the next day and off to Marylebone Station to catch the first train that we could. As we rumbled through the northern suburbs of the metropolis and out into the Chiltern Hills, I read through Master Buckingham's copious notes.

“This sounds like something that a schoolboy might dream up”, I said. “I am not going to start believing in ghosts at my age!”

“I rather think”, he said, “that the foolish cyclist who some three decades ago tried and failed to cut in front of a heavy train is an integral part to this case.”

“You think that this Mrs. Black _did_ see a ghost?” I asked dubiously. The lady had reportedly seen a cyclist waiting at the level-crossing on four separate occasions when there had not been a train due, but on her going out to check had found nothing.

“I think it statistically unlikely given the house layout which her son provided that she would have always have seen the cyclist from one of her three _upstairs_ windows”, Sherlock said. “There are five downstairs windows that afford a similar view yet she was always in a place where she had to first descend the stairs, allowing the person that she saw sufficient time to get away.”

“You think that someone is trying to frighten her to death?” I asked. “Hardly an efficient way of murdering someone as you yourself have said.”

“That is a means of killing very popular with certain poor-quality writers of fiction”, he said with an innocent look that I did not believe for one second, “but as you say it is most inefficient. However it can be used as a cover for a more direct attempt on someone's life. I note that Mr. Black was in the cottage on all four occasions and in the room with his wife on two of them, yet he failed to see the cyclist. He could therefore have provided a warning to the fellow especially as in his son's most carefully chosen words his mother is 'a lady whose natural size sometimes renders it difficult for her to traverse the stairs quickly'.”

“A politician as well as a detective in the making!” I smiled. “I take it that this Mrs. Birkin whom he carefully terms 'someone of less than the highest moral rectitude' is the motive?”

“The widow who lives with the son from her first marriage and whose name has been associated with that of Mr. Black by village gossip”, he said distastefully. “Such gossip is cruel but far too often correct. The potential stepson would I suppose be able to play the part of the cyclist, although I shall need to visit Westcott and see how it was all done before challenging them.”

I carried on reading through the notes – the boy really had been incredibly thorough – until we reached Aylesbury where we took a carriage to the Grammar School. However on presenting ourselves at the school office we were told that Master Black was not there.

“Such a tragedy!” the secretary sniffed. “The poor boy's mama was killed this very morning and he was summoned home.”

“Killed?” I said, shocked. “How, pray?”

“Run over by a train, they said. I understand that they took her body to Waddesdon police-station.”

Sherlock and I looked at each other in shock. We had come too late.

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My friend was unusually silent and I knew instinctively that he was blaming himself for not having come here the previous night, impossible as that would have been. We took a cab on to the village of Waddesdon where we found the sergeant in charge of the small local police-station looking overwhelmed.

“This is not what I signed on for!” he sighed as we all sat down. “I've had those fellows at each other's throats all morning and I had to threaten to lock one of them in the cells to cool down so he would just bug.... go away. The other a toff on top of it all!”

“Sergeant Tompkins”, Sherlock said calmingly. “My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague Doctor John Watson.”

The man's eyes widened. I could well imagine that he had just mentally downgraded his day from 'could not get any worse' to 'or maybe it could'.

“You think that there is foul play here?” he gasped.

“First, who are the two gentlemen that you had such trouble with?” Sherlock asked gently.

“Mr. Lance Black the victim's husband, and Lord Kitebrook – Mr. Henry Buckingham, Lord Hawke's brother”, he said. “Fellow from the 'Scurry-About', case, sirs.”

He was I knew referencing the case some two three back when that scandal sheet which I myself would never have even considered reading (and that had better not be anything even approaching a smirk from someone!) had indulged in some frankly uncouth speculation about the gentleman's original parents. He had sued and won an amount for damages which had forced the libellous rag to close down and he had donated all his winnings to a fund for wounded soldiers (a friend of his was in the Army).

“Mr. Black insisted that it was his wife's wish that she be cremated”, the sergeant continued, “but Lord Kitebrook was just as firm that there should be an examination first. Mr. Black has returned to Westcott to fetch his late wife's will; he says that she most clearly stated her last wishes in that document.”

“When is he due back?” Sherlock asked. The sergeant checked his watch.

“Not for best part of an hour I reckon”, he said. “He left less than quarter of an hour since; my ears have only just stopped ringing!”

“Would it be acceptable for the doctor to perform a quick examination?” Sherlock asked. “I know that it is irregular but it is only fair to warn you there is a strong suspicion that this was no accident, and that Mr. Black himself might well be one of the guilty parties.”

The sergeant somehow contrived to turn even paler. 

“Go ahead gentlemen”, he said. “But if Mr. Black returns you'll have to hop it, otherwise it'll be my neck on the line!”

Sherlock smiled and we were ushered through to a cold, empty room at the back of the station where the body of the late Mrs. Eleanor Black lay on a long table. _Post mortems_ were not my area of expertise but I had done more than most doctors, and I quickly got to work.

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Twenty minutes later Mr. Black had still not returned and Sherlock, the sergeant and I were sat round a table in another room. 

“Death occurred sometime between the hours of five and seven this morning”, I said. “I cannot be more accurate than that I am afraid, although I would incline to later rather than earlier in that time frame.”

“What time is the first train?” Sherlock asked.

The sergeant had a timetable to hand. 

“Through Westcott the first is the one at ten to seven”, he said. “Trains are hardly ever on time on this line but that one would have been because it connects at Aylesbury for London; in fact it is probably the busiest train of the day. At that time it would have been dark but with some light.”

“Cause of death?” Sherlock asked. 

“I cannot be sure”, I admitted. “Clearly from the damage to the body she was struck by a heavy object not moving particularly fast. It _could_ have been a slow-moving train. I also think it possible that the body was moved subsequent to death because of the lividity.”

“From the what?” the sergeant asked, confused.

“Blood settles after death”, I explained. “The state of the skin suggests that the impact most likely occurred _after_ the blood had begun to settle. And there is the possibility that she was smothered.”

The sergeant took a long drink of his tea, glaring at it as if he felt that he needed something stronger. He probably did.

“How do you know that?” he asked.

“There is some discolouration around the lips”, I said, “more than I would have expected. But I cannot be certain.”

“That may be enough”, Sherlock said. “Sergeant, do you know where Lord Kitebrook went?”

“He is staying at the vicarage in Westcott, sir”, the sergeant said. “The vicar there is a friend of his brother Lord Hawke.”

“Then we must adjourn there with all speed”, Sherlock said. “Sergeant, you must not release that body regardless of whatever document that Mr. Black can provide. If – let us be realistic, _when_ \- he makes a fuss, tell him that the body can be released only when the will has been certified by a police lawyer and you cannot get one down here until tomorrow.”

We left in a hurry.

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Westcott turned out to be a charming little village, less than a mile from the main road between Aylesbury and Bicester yet in a world of its own. It was stretched out along a single street except for the church and a smattering of houses along its solitary side-road. The tramway cut across the main road a little way south of the village with only the stationmaster's house anywhere near it. It was a typical English village scene, marred only by the heavy grey leaden skies that threatened more snow to add to the light covering that had not yet melted. 

Henry Lord Kitebrook was physically quite similar to his adoptive brother except for the odd fact that, in a way I cannot quite describe, the inner beauty that shone through the latter was not there in him. I do not mean to imply by that that there was anything wrong with the fellow; he was as I have said a thoroughly decent gentleman and as good-looking as his brother physically, but he was just.... normal. He was clearly anxious at recent events but equally clearly disposed to accept our assistance.

“Harry said that he was going to bring you in”, he sighed. “I am only sorry that it was not sooner. Poor Lion is resting upstairs now; the doctor quite rightly gave him a sedative. I have told the school that Herry and he will be taking some time away to cope with all this, and Herry has already said he would like to change schools so that they can avoid the inevitable gossip and backstairs whispering. That dastardly so-called father of his friend has doubtless returned to the police-station to demand that his wife be cremated, so that he can hide the evidence.”

“You think him to be guilty?” Sherlock asked.

“I am sure of it!” the nobleman exclaimed. “But there is no proof.”

“Then we may have to indulge in a little breaking and entering”, Sherlock said. “Let us hope that the sergeant indulges my request and keeps Mr. Black busy.”

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We walked down to the tramway station, the only incident occurring when a large middle-aged woman and a boy of about twelve years of age passed us at one point and our guide tensed but did not otherwise react.

“Mrs. and Master Birkin”, he explained once they had passed. “They do not know me by sight, fortunately.”

They had made an unpleasant pair, as she was far too made-up and he was both pasty-faced and bored-looking. We moved on and were soon at the station which was a decidedly mean affair. This being a tramway there were of course no crossing-gates, but there was little else either. Not even a platform as such, just a gravelled area with a name-board, a rudimentary waiting-shelter and a storage hut by the crossing. Sherlock seemed particularly interested in the latter for some reason. 

“At least I have solved the mystery of how the 'ghost' disappeared”, he said, much to the surprise of us both.

“How?” I asked.

He gestured to the back of the small shed and I noted that the lock on the building looked almost new. Then he pointed to the floor. 

“Cycle tyre impressions”, he said. “And at least one complete footprint of someone who wears those fashionable yet uncomfortable square-toed boots, which we saw young Master Birkin wearing in the street.”

“So he _was_ the ghost!” Lord Kitebrook exclaimed. “The bastard!”

“That connects _him_ to the crime but not Mr. Black”, Sherlock said as we walked over to the station house. “We shall search outside first but I fear that we may have to break in for what we seek”

“What are we looking for?” the nobleman asked.

“A piece of cloth from the size of a face flannel upwards”, Sherlock said. “I fear that it may have been burnt, but if you do find it then do not on any account touch it. It is important evidence.”

We nodded and the three of us set about searching the property grounds.

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As Sherlock had suspected we did not find what he was looking for, and after ten minutes he decided to break into the house, which he managed with his usual (and worrying) ease. Once inside he split us up to cover more ground, and it was only five minutes later that Lord Kitebrook called from the kitchen. We hurried to meet him and found him looking at a drawer from which something made of cloth protruded. Sherlock carefully opened the drawer, then using a pair of washing-tongs extracted what turned out to be a scarf. He held it out to me.

“Do not touch, just sniff”, he ordered.

I did, and promptly reeled backwards.

“Chloroform!” I gasped once my head had stopped swimming. “A powerful dose to still be detectable this many hours on from when it must have been used.”

“We need to get out of here”, Sherlock said. He found a paper bag from another drawer and dropped the scarf into it, then ushered us out of the house before turning to Lord Kitebrook.”

“Sir”, he said flatly, “I know now that Mr. Black murdered his wife, and I know how it was done. Above all, I can prove it. Would you care to accompany us to Waddesdon police-station so that we can confront the villain?”

The young fellow smiled. That was definitely a Hawke smile.

“Sir, I would be honoured!”

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We arrived back at the police-station to find that Mr. Black gone, although the sergeant assured us we would not have to wait long for his return.

“He spoke the truth about his wife's wish to be cremated”, the policeman said ruefully, “but I still didn't release him the body. So he went to get his lawyer to come have a go at me.”

“A good lawyer may well be what he needs”, Sherlock smiled. “We shall wait.”

Another hour passed and Mr. Black arrived back at the police-station with his lawyer, a most unpleasant-looking fellow called Mr. Amadeus Winder. It was a tight fit getting six grown men into the interview room, but we just managed it.

“Sergeant”, Mr. Winder began in a nasally voice that reminded me immediately of a railway station announcer, “I _demand_ that you release my client's late wife to him so that he may respect her final wishes.”

“While the sergeant would normally accede to such a request”, Sherlock said smoothly, “there are certain difficulties that prevent his acting in this case.”

The lawyer looked down his overly long nose at my friend.

“What might those be, sir?” he demanded snootily.

“That your client killed his wife and is attempting to have her cremated in order to hide the evidence.”

There was a stunned silence in the room before Mr. Black spoke harshly.

“There are laws of libel and slander in this country”, he ground out. “Be aware that my father is not someone who the likes of you should annoy, Mr. Holmes.”

“The laws of libel and slander only apply if the statement is untrue”, Sherlock said. “You murdered your wife - _and I can prove it!”_

Another silence, which this time was broken by Sherlock himself.

“You had decided to rid yourself of your wife so that you could marry Mrs. Birkin, who is quite wealthy in her own right”, he said. “You began by trying to unnerve your wife by having Mrs. Birkin's son dress as the ghost of a man killed years ago on the nearby tramway crossing.”

“Poppycock!” Mr. Black snorted. Sherlock smiled.

“Young Mr. Birkin was able to disappear by waiting until he knew he was being watched – always from the upstairs rooms and always with you in a position to send a warning – then carrying his bicycle to the storage shed and hiding himself and it inside until Mrs. Black had gone away. But he was careless. He left a footprint which matches the distinctive square-toed boots that he wears, and there were also cycle marks in the area where he rested the bike while opening the door. I am sure that when those are compared to his bicycle, they will be a perfect match.”

The man had gone rather red.

“Your son approached a schoolfriend of his whose father is a friend of mine”, Sherlock said. “I do not know how but you became aware of that fact and realized that I was set to be called in, so decided to act before I could stop you. You were also fortunate in your wife's request for cremation which you expected would hide the evidence of your misdeeds.”

Even the nasal lawyer was looking nervous now.

“At sometime around six this morning”, Sherlock said, “Master Birkin came to the house. You had concocted an excuse to rise early and let him in. You then went upstairs and chloroformed your wife. That was where you made your major mistake. You threw the cloth that you used in the kitchen drawer.”

Sherlock drew the bag containing the cloth out of his pocket and placed it on the table. Mr. Black seemed to sag even further.

“I do not know exactly what you did next”, Sherlock admitted. “I would conjecture that you and Master Birkin carried your wife's body out of the house and threw it up against the single wagon that is in the siding at the station. You then suffocated her hoping that her death would look like she had wandered out to investigate the 'ghost' and that she too had been struck by a passing train.”

“No proof”, the blackguard growled, clearly recovering some of his poise. “A few marks on the ground and an old rag? So what?”

Sherlock leaned forward.

“You are seemingly unaware”, he almost purred, “that even if they are unconscious at the time, the suffocation of a person by closing off their airway leads almost inevitably to a piece of cloth getting caught in the victim's airway?”

The man stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, then slumped in his chair. 

“You wait!” he snarled. “I'll get off. You'll see!”

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“I do not remember seeing any cloth fragments in the dead lady's airway”, I observed as we left the station that day.

“There were none”, he said dryly. I stared at him in shock.

“But you said they were there!” I insisted.

“No”, he replied. “What I actually said was they were there in most cases. I can hardly be blamed for Mr. Black's assuming the worst, can I now?”

The devious bastard!

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Postscriptum: Mr. Black's belief in the elasticity of the British justice system turned out to be sorely misplaced as he was convicted for the murder of his wife and hung before the year was out. It was not the evidence that did for him, little enough as it was, but the decision of Master Birkin when he was told just how many years he faced in gaol to turn on his mother and her lover. It reduced his own sentence somewhat but he still spent nearly a decade inside for his part in the murder. His scheming mother was jailed for five years as an accomplice after which she 'repaid' her son's actions by selling her house and emigrating to parts unknown, leaving him with nothing. He sank into the London crime scene on his release and was never heard from again. 

Lord Salisbury's government was horrified that Lord Kessock's son could have behaved in such a manner and Sherlock's discretion in smoothing over matters was much appreciated. He refused a reward himself and instead requested that a generous sum be laid aside for poor young Master Lion Black, who was now an orphan as his grandfather had stated said that he wanted nothing to do with him - an act of cruelty which, fittingly, ended his political career when the newspapers somehow (ahem!) found out about it. Lord Kitebrook took the boy into his own home where he grew up to be a fine young gentleman - but not before he and his adoptive brother had had further adventures of their own in which we would play our parts.

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	9. Case 206: The Adventure Of The Three Students

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. John endures some difficult memories of times past as he and Sherlock return to Oxford where they first met [redacted] years ago, and the great detective once more teaches the world of education a lesson.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It was late March, just over a year since Sherlock had been restored to me. I was of course overjoyed to have him back and would often find myself staring across the room from my chair, just happy that the room contained my dear friend. And if he sometimes caught me staring and gestured for us to go to his room, well friendship was all about making sacrifices was it not? Even if I found it difficult to sit down afterwards. Or move. Or make complicated facial expressions.

Except today when I really wished that he had been somewhere, anywhere else. I had just returned from a trip to Oxford feeling completely and utterly depressed. Of course he was reading in his chair and although I muttered a greeting and walked quickly to my own room, he called after me.

“John?”

He sounded concerned and I sighed in defeat. I turned on my heels and went slowly over to my chair, falling heavily into it. He quirked an eyebrow at me.

“Your trip went ill?” he asked.

“Very ill”, I said glumly. 

“I thought that you were looking forward to seeing Stamford?” he asked, clearly puzzled. “I know that we exchange telegrams and of course cards at Christmas but you have not seen him for some years now what with his time in Africa.”

“I know.”

He stared at me in confusion.

“The ‘Stamford’ who asked to meet me in Oxford was not just Mr. James Stamford from Northumberland”, I said bitterly. “It was also his son Joshua. His adult son who is in his first year at Bonaventure College. They both met me there.”

At any other time Sherlock's confusion would probably have amused me – Lord knows it was rare enough - but now he seemed genuinely perplexed by my reaction.

“You did know that Stamford had a son?” he asked.

“Yes”, I said, knowing how utterly foolish I must have sounded. “I just never did the mathematics. I last saw Stamford just before he left six years back and Joshua was only twelve years of age at the time, a weed of a boy. The weed has grown into a man.”

“Did you not get on well with Mr. Joshua Stamford?” he asked. I looked up at him mournfully.

“Stamford is almost my age”, I said dully, “yet he is married and has a son attending university. A six-foot-tall giant of a man. I just feel _old!_ Old and useless!”

He looked shocked at that.

“John Watson!” he said sternly, “you are _not_ old! You are forty-three years of age, in the prime of your life and barely two and a half years older than my good self. As for useless – how could I manage without you?”

He had said that several times before, to me and others, that he would not be the force he was without me but I had always thought that he was just being kind to an ol... to a friend.

“Perhaps”, I said. 

“Did your friend or your friend’s son have any particular reason for requesting this visit?” he asked. 

“Young Joshua is concerned that a friend of his has been accused of theft”, I said. “I said that I would ask if you could spare some time to look into it, although I warned him how busy you have been of late.”

“True”, he said, “but I shall always make time for a friend of a friend. We could go to Oxford on Wednesday next if you wish.”

Oxford. Where I had met Sherlock and we had had our first case, the 'Gloria Scott' fiasco at the unmissed Bargate College. The town to which I had travelled twenty-one years ago on the broad-gauge of the Great Western, something else that had been consigned to the history book. I winced at the memory.

“Would you rather I go alone?” he asked.

“Of course not!” I protested. “It has just…. been a long time.”

“Over two decades”, he said unhelpfully. “But look on the bright side.”

 _“What_ bright side?” I scowled.

“I read recently that the Great Western Railway may soon be offering discounts for elderly travellers!”

I scowled at him. That was just _mean!_

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Sherlock said nothing more about my general depression that day, which was considerate in his way. That was until that evening when, needing a blue-eyed genius to hold, I made my way to his room and knocked at the door. He bade me enter but I was barely through the wood when he called for me to stop. I looked at him, puzzled (all right, I may also have drooled just a little but then I had six foot of naked beauty stretched out in front of me!).

“I thought that you might need that”, he said gesturing to the stand by the door.

I looked down - and scowled mightily. There was an old man's walking-stick there. I silently wished that we were indeed married just so that I could divorce the snarky bastard!

“You are just asking for it!” I growled shrugging off my dressing-gown. He quirked an eyebrow at me. 

“Are you sure you are up to it?” he teased, fondling one mighty impressive erection. “I know how you _older_ folks find it harder to get things up of an evening.”

“You are just mean!” I bit back positioning myself above him and ignoring his smirk as I removed the plug I had not long inserted in there (so I was prepared; shut up!). “I could always make you wait for it?”

He smirked knowingly at me.

“You could not”, he smiled.

Curse him, he was right! I could no more withhold sex from Sherlock than I could stop breathing. I tried to lower myself onto him but he held me in place, making my eyes water.

“I am not sure about this”, he yawned in mock tiredness. “Perhaps someone of your 'great age' should not have too much excitement of a night!”

Growling I wrenched his hands away and impaled myself on his monster of a cock. My eyes watered at the sudden pain but that was swept away by the sense of fulfilment. I had him!

“That is not so bad, I suppose”, he said, faking another yawn. “Is that it?”

I almost snarled in my frustration and began to squeeze his cock as hard as I could He fought back by thrusting ever harder into me and despite whatever feeble efforts someone of my ag... ability was capable of it was a battle that was only ever going to end one way. I came with a wail, only slightly mollified that he followed me over the precipice just seconds later. 

“I love you”, he said quietly as he wiped us both down and I lay there trying to get my breath and remember which way was up. “You are not too old, John. But if you want to prove that to me again – feel free!”

“Oh yes!” I said fervently as my world span like a demented gyroscope. “Sure. Just.... just give me a minute.”

 _That_ sounded suspiciously like a snigger!

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Sherlock was quite determined to prove both that I still had it in me and that he was damn determined to fuck it out of me, which for the next few days meant virtually non-stop sex. After one memorable occasion when he succeeded in wringing three successive orgasms out of me I had to agree that another promotion was due, and the new Colonel Sherlock celebrated his achievement by fucking me so hard that I did actually pass out. He seriously was trying to kill me through sex and that was just.... so damn good!

The following week Sherlock and what was left of me returned to Oxford, scene of my first ever meeting with the love of my life. I must admit that I felt lighter once we were in the city of dreaming spires especially as young Stamford's college lay some distance from the troubled memories of the vanished and unmissed Bargate. I also felt a little ashamed as I had not thought how my friend would feel about being reminded of a case where his findings had to all intents and purposes been thrown in his face. Sherlock however said nothing about the past and we were soon in the well-manicured grounds of Bonaventure.

The younger Stamford was what some people (rather offensively as I have said before) then called a half-caste, a phraseology which is now thankfully fading from common usage. My old friend had married a black lady from the United States, much against his father’s initial wishes, but the fragrant Lucia had rapidly won him over. She had also more than secured the family line producing some six sons and two daughters for her husband yet miraculously keeping her slim figure, from the last time I had seen her in ‘Eighty-Nine just after the birth of her youngest child Elizabeth. Her eldest son was strikingly handsome although I had wondered whether he would find his mixed looks a hindrance in his life. But then the English as a whole cared little for race provided people fitted into their culture.

“Thank you for coming, Uncle John”, he smiled. 

I had stood godfather to the boy at his christening, so I did _not_ need reminding that I was both an honorary and an actual uncle thank you very much. Stevie's boys – Jack the eldest was nearly seven - were more than enough let alone the small matter of a certain young fellow in Hampshire who might well one day have some difficult questions for me to answer.

“I have brought my detective friend, as promised”, I said taking a seat. It had been a cold day and the journey up had been tiring…..

Hell I would be looking round for my pipe and slippers next!

“Please tell me about your friend’s problems”, Sherlock said sitting down more elegantly than my near-collapse. His knee brushed against mine, and even that simple action made me blush. Manfully, of course.

“His name is Michael Fitzgerald and he is from Bantry in County Cork”, the young man said. “I mention that because the man accusing him is fervently anti-Irish, and I feel that that may have played a part in my friend falling under suspicion. Mick is a good fellow, a little to prone to parties and the social life but I suppose we all have our weaknesses.”

Sherlock looked at him pointedly. The tall man blushed.

“I am courting his sister, Geraldine”, he admitted.

_How did he do that?_

“Thank you”, Sherlock said with a smile. “Do go on.”

“Mick lives like we all do with two other students in a self-contained set of rooms”, Stamford said. “His room-mates are Edward Strathmore who is Scots-American and an actual American, Harold Spurring; they are good friends because Eddie has American grandparents. Both pleasant enough young fellows I had always thought – and yet one of them must be guilty if Mick is innocent.”

“If?” I questioned. “You doubt your friend?”

Stamford blushed. 

“The item stolen was a small marine compass”, he explained. “It dates from the reign of Great Elizabeth and may even have been used on a ship in the defeat of the Spanish Armada. Sold to the right person it would bring many hundreds of pounds, if not thousands. Mick is a good fellow but he is here on a small scholarship and has to work long hours in the city to make ends meet. They do say that every man has his price.”

“Why do you say that it must be one of these three men?” Sherlock asked.

“The compass was kept in the university’s own small museum which is in a room next to the three boys”, Stamford explained. “There is a connecting door but it was always kept locked, and the museum is only ever opened if someone asks to see it or for certain special guests. The only other way in was through the boys’ room – and when the college authorities checked the door, they found someone had both oiled and unlocked it.”

“Why would they oil it?” I asked.

“There is a heavy curtain on the other side of the door”, Stamford said. “I suppose that if the door could be opened a bit and silently, someone could then listen to make sure that the room was empty before pulling back the curtain. Besides, I know that the doors between the rooms were locked after they put in the fire-exits; we were told that when we were shown around the place. Also I suppose that a door being opened after a long time might make quite a racket.”

“But what about the main way in?” Sherlock asked. “Anyone with the keys to it could have entered at a time of their own choosing.”

“The main door has two keys”, Stamford said. “One is always with the Chancellor but he is off sick at the moment so the Vice-Chancellor is in charge. His name is Mr. Silas Barrowman and he is a nasty piece of work, one of those oily fellows who always makes me think of one of those infernal Turkish rug salesmen. The other key is on the House Master’s set; Bonaventure is split into six houses and a quiet fellow called Mr. Ferdinand Amory is in charge of James’s house, Bluewater. Mick says that Amory does not like his room-mates as he thinks they are too loud – he has a point there, I admit - but he himself has never had any problems with the fellow.”

“How do you think that someone could have gained access to the room in order to oil the connecting door?” Sherlock asked.

“That would have been easy”, Stamford said. “Bluewater had a fire alarm test last week and everyone was kept waiting outside in the freezing cold for fifteen minutes. Someone could have slipped in and done it then. It is not the sort of thing that the boys would have checked as they had no reason to ever try that door.”

“Does the museum connect with the room of any other students?” Sherlock asked. Stamford shook his head.

“There is another door”, he said, “but it only leads to a dead-end store room. More of a cupboard really. Also there is the fire-door but that has an alarm on it, and the stairs descend to a busy path.”

“No joy there then”, I sighed.

“Was not the compass in a locked case?” Sherlock asked.

“That was the other thing that was odd”, Stamford said. “Of course I did not tell the authorities what I am about to tell you but I happen to know that Mick is an excellent lock-picker. Yet the lock was smashed quite crudely.”

“The college would doubtless assert that that was him hiding his tracks”, Sherlock said. “I think that it is time we met these three young men, preferably in their own room. Can it be arranged?”

“I am sure that they would welcome any help they can get”, Stamford said fervently.

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A short time later we did indeed meet the three young men. Mr. Michael Fitzgerald was blond, anaemic-looking and seemed like he was barely starting puberty let alone finishing it, which made me feel even older than I already did (apparently that was possible, worse luck). Mr. Edward Strathmore was a solidly built chap with a stylized (pretentious) beard and an intelligent expression while Mr. Harold Spurring was thinner, dark-haired and clearly a little wary of us. All three were psychology majors, the college policy being to group students on similar courses where possible. 

“They had some guests in to view the exhibits at a little after two that day”, Mr. Fitzgerald explained, “so the compass was there then. Harry and Eddie were studying at the library while I was in my room.”

Sherlock looked pointedly at his room-mates, who both blushed.

“The Carpenter’s Arms, sir”, Mr. Strathmore muttered shamefacedly (I was going to start renting my friend out if he kept this up!).

“We got back at four-thirty and did go to the library for an hour”, Mr. Spurring said defensively. 

Another look.

“Or so”, he admitted. “We didn’t get back to the room until five-thirty by which time all hell had broken loose.”

Sherlock turned to Mr. Fitzgerald.

“You were here all the time?” he asked.

“Except for when I got called down to see Forster, the beadle”, Mr. Fitzgerald said. “That was around three-thirty, I think. He had a badly-addressed letter but we eventually worked out that it was for Fitzhugh on the first floor. I took it to him on my way back up.”

“How long were you gone for overall?” Sherlock asked. 

“Not more than ten minutes, I think”, the young man said. “Is that important?”

Sherlock did not answer him but looked across to the nearby wall where there was another solid-looking door. 

“Where does that lead?” he asked.

“Into Judson’s room; he shares with Hall and Makepeace, sir”, Mr. Spurring said. “They're psych majors like us but a year ahead and are on a jaunt down in London this week.”

Sherlock smiled his slow smile. That I knew was a good sign.

“I think that I am beginning to see how this was done”, he said, “but not yet how it can be proven against the obvious culprit. Do all visitors to the house have to sign in?”

“Of course, sir”, Mr. Fitzgerald said.

“Then our next port of call is the signing-in book”, Sherlock said. “Gentlemen your help today has been invaluable. Mr. Fitzgerald, I hope to have some news for you shortly. Good day!”

He rose and walked swiftly from the room, and I scurried after him.

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“This was a complex crime, John”, he said as we made our way down from the top floor. “At least three men were implicated in its workings and it will be difficult to break through their ring of deceit. As I have said before, knowing the guilty party is one thing but proving it to a sufficient degree is quite another. Let us start with our next port of call.”

I realized that he had stopped outside the beadle’s rooms.

 _“The beadle?”_ I said, surprised and only just remembering to keep my voice down. “He is a loyal servant of the college!”

“Many crimes need someone who does exactly what he is told”, he said. “Consider, part of the crime involved luring Mr. Fitzgerald away from his room for long enough for the real perpetrator to make his escape from the museum. I would wager that if we went to Mr. Fitzhugh and asked him about that letter, he would have said that it was sent in error.”

“Could he be in on it too?” I wondered. He shook his head.

“In any crime the fewer people involved the better”, he said. 

“But how did the thieves do it?” I asked. “The museum is on the second floor.”

“We will come to that shortly”, he said. “In the meantime let us see what we can learn from Mr. Forster.”

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The beadle Mr. Haydn Forster was a grey-haired and grizzled old fellow in his late fifties, seemingly worn down by his job. He was he said quite shocked that Mr. Fitzgerald had come under suspicion but then the man was after all Irish. That sort of bigotry would have been bad enough without Sherlock’s own Hibernian parentage and my fists itched in the irksome fellow’s presence. 

It was I thought notable that when Sherlock asked him how the Fitzhugh letter had arrived in his office, there was a definite pause before his answer. Fortunately for him my friend did not choose to push the matter; he did however ask to see the list of recent visitors to the house, and told me to copy down all the names from the past ten days, which took some little time. After we had left I asked him why only for him to pull me into an alcove.

“Watch!” he whispered.

I stared at him then noticed a figure leaving the building that we had just vacated. It was the beadle, hurrying across the college green to the Chancellor’s offices where he knocked only briefly before entering. Sherlock chuckled.

“Loyal, but I doubt that the estimable Vice-Chancellor will be pleased with what he has to report”, he said. “Let us go round the back and see what we can see.”

“Why did you want the names of all those people?” I asked.

“I only really wanted the ones who visited on the day of the crime”, he said. “But it will calm the criminals involved that I am looking so far back as they will think that I may be on the wrong trail. One of the names from the day in question is involved in the deed for which Mr. Fitzgerald has been blamed. I will telegraph them to Randall and he can perhaps find a link between one of them and the Vice-Chancellor. Unless they used a false name of course, but then at least my irritating brother will have to do a lot of work to no end.”

I smiled at that, and I knew at least that Sherlock's most annoying brother would co-operate in this if only because the terrifying Lady Holmes had called the lounge-lizard to her home and told him that he would be answering _all_ Sherlock's requests for help in future and rapidly, or he would be invited round to explain himself. Hopefully when their mother was having another meeting of her Coven to commit further crimes against English literature and damnation if 'someone' was not giving me a disapproving look just then!

Sherlock led me round behind the main building and I realized that we must be by the corner outside the three students' rooms. Each of the first- and second-floor rooms had their own balcony albeit only a small one – a man could barely have lain lengthways on one of them - but there were hideous gargoyles protruding out from between each. There was no way that a man could have leapt past one of those unless he was part monkey.

My friend began looking around the flower beds as if he had lost something, but seemingly without success.

“Rope”, he said. “I was hoping to find evidence of some but it seems that the criminals cleaned up after themselves. Never mind. How do you feel about a night in the city of dreaming spires?”

“You think that we should stay?” I asked.

“From the duty roster in the beadle’s room I noted that he has a half-day tomorrow when his deputy is in charge”, Sherlock said. “There are two further things that I would like to examine but I do not wish to alarm the criminals too much by doing so in the beadle’s presence. It would also be good if the Chancellor could be persuaded to rise from his sickbed to join us.”

I nodded and we left for the town.

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The Chancellor was a bandy-legged little fellow called Mr. Charles Wisdom. His doctor had recommended him a further week of rest but on hearing of Sherlock’s interest in the case he was naturally eager to see the whole matter cleared up. He accompanied us up to the room from where the theft had taken place, and although the climb clearly tired him he looked keen to learn our (Sherlock's) findings. 

“There are three things that I would like to examine”, Sherlock said. “If they are as I expect then the case is solved, although proving it may be difficult. First I would like to examine the museum.”

“Of course”, the Chancellor said producing a huge set of keys and fumbling until he found the correct one for the museum door. “Doubtless you will wish to see the case that the compass was taken from?”

No, sir”, Sherlock said as he followed the Chancellor into the room. “I wish to see the store-room.

The Chancellor looked more than a little surprised.

“The store-room, sir?” he said dubiously.

“Indeed”, Sherlock said. “I presume that it is not locked?”

“Hardly, sir”, the Chancellor said with a laugh. “We do not think that thieves will go for mops, buckets and cleaning fluids when the room has expensive antiques in it!”

He unlocked the small room which was indeed little more than a cupboard, lit only by a small slatted window at the back. Sherlock looked around the room and smiled.

“What were you expecting to find?” the Chancellor asked.

“It was more a case of what I was expecting to _not_ find”, Sherlock said. “All is as I suspected.”

“You are not thinking that a man could have gained access through that window, surely?” the Chancellor asked. “It is far too small, and it opens out onto a sheer wall.”

“That was not what I was thinking”, Sherlock said. “May we see Mr. Judson's room next, please?”

“I hope that you are not going to suggest that that noble gentleman had anything to do with the crime”, the Chancellor said as he followed us out of the museum locking the door behind us. “Not only was he absent at the time of the theft but his father is one of the college's major benefactors, and a most respectable personage.”

“My current theory would place Mr. Judson clear of any involvement”, Sherlock said. “Though in his absence, his room played a major part in the crime.”

He would say no more until we entered the set of rooms next door to Mr. Fitzgerald's and strikingly similar in appearance except, rather incongruously, for a small toy dog wearing a scarf of the college colours.

“The connecting doors were locked when we put in fire-escapes a couple of years back”, the Chancellor explained as Sherlock walked over to the door through to Mr. Fitzgerald's room. “Before that there was the danger that people could be trapped in a room with no way out. They are not used now.”

Sherlock pointed to the hinges of the connecting door and we both moved closer to look. They had clearly been oiled.

“Oiled from _this_ side”, Sherlock pointed out. “You can see where a drop has run down a little way. I checked while I was in the other room earlier and there was no application of oil there. Since Mr. Fitzgerald and his room-mates had no access to this room none of them could have done this.”

“An accomplice?” the Chancellor suggested.

“There were at least three men in this crime”, Sherlock said. “I have one more thing to look at then I shall hopefully be able to explain matters to you. Though I should warn you now that it will not be good news.”

He walked over to the balcony door before the Chancellor could say anything, opened it and stepped out. The balcony itself was barely big enough for a single chair and had iron railings around the edge. Sherlock looked at them and smiled again. 

“All is as I thought”, he said. “Chancellor, we will adjourn to your offices and discuss matters there.”

I looked at the balcony but could not see anything out of the ordinary about it. Sighing I followed my friend.

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Outside the Chancellor's offices he was met by his secretary, an elderly lady wearing one of the most severe purple dresses that I had ever seen.

“Mr. Barrowman has had to go down to London, sir”, she said. “A family emergency. He said that he might spend the night there.”

I looked at Sherlock in alarm – this was one of his suspects surely? - but he seemed unperturbed. 

“Thank you, Miss Truman”, the Chancellor said. “Will you please ensure that we are not disturbed?”

The secretary looked at us curiously and nodded, although I was sure that I caught a simper directed at a certain someone before she left. The Chancellor ushered us into his study and bade us sit down.

“I have mixed news for you”, Sherlock said. “The good news is that I have some hopes of recovering your stolen compass.”

“That is good”, the man smiled.

“The bad news is that you have almost certainly been the victim of fraud over a period of some duration”, Sherlock went on, “and that your college's financial position is likely perilous in the extreme.”

“That cannot be so”, the Chancellor said roundly. “Mr. Barrowman has been acting as bursar during the past three months and would have told me of any such problems.”

Sherlock looked at our host pointedly. It took him some time to get it but when he did, he looked horrified.

 _“Silas?”_ he quavered. Sherlock nodded.

“Mr. Barrowman saw a chance to enrich himself and to then disappear with your money”, he said gently. “I fear that you will find that the cupboard, so to speak, is bare.”

“No!”

“Not content with that, he saw a chance to increase his gains still further by adding to his haul your Elizabethan compass”, Sherlock continued. “I do have some hopes there however. The item is only truly valuable to someone who would appreciate it and I think it almost certain that it was, as the saying goes, 'stolen to order'. A telegram that I received from my brother this morning tells me that someone whose scruples are what might most charitably be termed 'flexible' has recently acquired just such an item. God, some able lawyers and the threat of publicity willing, we should be able to recover it.”

“That is something”, the Chancellor said still looking shaken. “But how? How was it done?”

Sherlock sat back.

“As I said there were at least three people involved”, he said. “The Vice-Chancellor, an associate of his and the beadle Mr. Forster. The Vice-Chancellor's role was critical. Once you fell ill he arranged for the three boys in the room next door but one to the museum to be sent on a week-long field trip to London. Their room was a pivotal part of the plan to throw suspicion on Mr. Fitzgerald and/or his room-mates. He also arranged a fire-alarm test so that he or more likely his associate could oil and unlock the doors between Mr. Fitzgerald's and _both_ adjoining rooms. Since the police later checked only the door between his room and the museum – doubtless urged on by the Vice-Chancellor - the discovery of that oiled door would further throw suspicion on him.”

“On the day of the theft Mr. Barrowman conducted a small party around the museum. It was easy for him to add an extra member to the party who I now know signed in under a false name. Had the police been more thorough and started investigating those who had come to the museum that day I am sure that the associate would have been identified by the Vice-Chancellor as someone who had left the room with him. Of course he did no such thing.”

“Where was he?” the Chancellor asked.

“Left behind in the room”, Sherlock said. “The Vice-Chancellor saw the other guests out – all innocent people, I should add – as they finished viewing then followed at some distance apparently talking to his associate. If asked the beadle would have doubtless said that he heard the Vice-Chancellor pass by his room and had someone of the correct description with him. What actually happened was that the associate was left in the store-room until the Vice-Chancellor could be certain that Mr. Fitzgerald or one of his room-mates was in the next room. The signal was presumably that if the Vice-Chancellor did not return within a set time then the theft could go ahead.”

“How do you know that this associate waited in the store-room?” the Chancellor asked. “I saw no signs of anyone having been there.”

“Precisely.”

We both looked at him in confusion.

“The shelves were about as dusty as one might have expected but the _floor_ had been recently swept”, he said. “Very thoroughly, too. Someone did not want to risk the danger of their presence in that cupboard, however brief, being detected.”

“I see a flaw in what happened next though”, the Chancellor said. “The museum has a fire door that the thief could have used, and Silas could have deactivated the alarm.”

“True”, Sherlock said, “except that the stairs twist and come down onto the path along the side of the college. I examined the area earlier and noted both that it is an official footpath and that traffic along it is quite heavy. There is also the corner of the building a short distance away, around which someone might come with no warning, and the base of the stairs is overlooked by windows in another large building across the way. No, our thief walks though Mr. Fitzgerald's room and into Mr. Judson's.”

“But Mr. Fitzgerald would have seen him!” I objected.

“You are forgetting the beadle”, Sherlock said. “He has been provided with a badly-addressed letter that might reasonably have been assumed to be for Mr. Fitzgerald, and at a set time he calls that gentleman down to get it. Again unusual; why did he not just send it up, or even take it up himself? Meanwhile our associate, now with one expensive marine compass in his possession, is waiting to hear Mr. Fitzgerald leave his room after which he knows the coast is clear. After a few moments he smashes the glass then passes through Mr. Fitzgerald's room into Mr. Judson's, locking the door behind him.”

“Why would he have to have oiled that door, then?” I wondered.

“Young Mr. Stamford was quite right in what he said about the sound of a door being opened for the first time in years”, Sherlock said. “The noise might well have reached through to the students in the next room along, who indeed had been questioned. That was the point of my question about the doors; they had been locked for a long time when this happened.”

“But how did the thief get out of Mr. Judson's room?” the Chancellor asked. “They are almost directly opposite the staircase.”

“He descended from the balcony”, Sherlock said. “If you had looked closely at the railings outside that room, which I did from below, you would have noticed that one of them was slightly bent and had some rope marks on it. The associate tied a rope around it and descended that way, then fled the college. Although it us not far from the compass room Mr. Judson's window is around the corner of the building and faces south, not east, and where a most convenient and frankly ugly large rhododendron bush obscures it from the footpath that continues away from it.”

“And now Silas has the money!” the Chancellor groaned.

Sherlock smiled.

“He will not get far”, he said soothingly. “Indeed, if we are lucky he will lead us straight to his associate. I have had two men trailing him since he came to work this morning.”

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As so often – all right, nearly always! - Sherlock was proven right. Mr. Silas Barrowman had gone straight to the London house of the man that he had employed in the robbery, a Mr. Robert Ventura, and both men were quickly arrested. Unfortunately much of the money that the Vice-Chancellor had stolen had been used to repay debts or could not be traced although both men got sentences that would not let them breathe free air for many a year. It turned out that the Vice-Chancellor had coerced the beadle into helping him by threatening his employment which would have cost him his and his family's house, and because of that the fellow was allowed to retire on a reduced pension, which I suppose was probably fair. The compass now resides back at Bonaventure and Sherlock's father kindly helped the college out with some financial backing to see them through the troubles caused by their thieving Vice-Chancellor. And young Stamford thanked us for helping out his friend.

I still felt old, though.

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	10. Case 207: The Adventure Of The Hidden Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. Families are often surprising things - Sherlock really needs to take something for that cough of his - but at least this time it is not the great detective who unexpectedly acquires an extra sibling. John endures another visit from someone who leers at his friend far too much, and Daniel enters the Lyon's den.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

It was a week after we had returned from Oxford and the Three Students Case. John and I were sitting quietly at home one afternoon, and I remember feeling particularly pleased because the impossibly wonderful Mrs. Hudson had somehow contrived to find a recipe for a 'bacon cake'. 

I had not _meant_ to eat John's slice as well as my own. It had just sort of.... happened. It was quite unfair of him to say that I was, and I quote, 'getting as bad as Gregson and LeStrade when it came to cake'. Nor did I as he claimed whimper when he suggested sending the rest of the cake to our policeman friends, or wrap my arms defensively around the whole cake. Or snarl at him.

_I did not!_

Talking of our friends I should mention here that they had somehow gotten through the union of Mr. Tristram Gregson with Miss Iseult LeStrade without killing each other (see under feeding the five thousand and other miracles). The wedding had been a small affair and it had been quite unfair of John to remark on the preponderance of cake at the reception; I thought ten different ones was quite the norm these days, especially as the happy couple could have been absolutely certain that not a single crumb would go to waste! Indeed they would be lucky to get any themselves!

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This adventure began the morning after a night before that had gone somewhat awry when John had sprained his ankle – all right, doing That. I was of course totally sympathetic, although I still expected (and got) half his bacon at breakfast. I mean, bacon!

One of John's less favoured visitors to Baker Street was the huge, muscular form of the affable Benji who had been round a couple of times recently, once because of an injury he had sustained in his actual job (a minor sprain which I am sure he played up only to tease poor John, the bad boy!) and once to tell us about his brother Lloyd, now twenty-two and as I have said before the lover of our friend Sweyn. I should add that Benji was a tease in another way too when he quite deliberately pointed out the twelve year age difference between Sweyn and Lloyd while leering at me in the presence of someone eleven years older than him. He knew all too well how insecure John got as to the much smaller two and a half year age gap between us and it was quite wrong of him to point that out as it only made John even more determined to prove that he still had it in him which led to.... why was I objecting again?

Lloyd did not yet have his elder brother's physique but one could see when they both came round that cold March day that it was only a matter of time. Benji had recently been photographed for an advertisement for one of those gymnasiums while wearing only a very short and very, _very_ tight pair of leopard-print trunks; I had just happened to remark on this to John and had got pouted at most severely! Naturally John was not grumbling away in the corner at Benji leering at me, not at all.

_That glare could probably have removed paint!_

“How may we be of service, gentlemen?” I asked once our visitors had sat down.

“It concerns our brother, sir”, Benji said.

I was surprised at that. The young gentlemen's father had I knew been the result of an affair that his own father had moved to England from Jamaica and from the one photograph that I had seen of him had been very like Benji. Mr. William Jackson-Giles, a Londoner, had married a black South African lady, and although neither fellow liked to talk about it I had gathered that it had not been a happy union, things being made more difficult by the fact that after Benji their mother had had six pregnancies five of which had ended in either stillbirths or miscarriages (the other had been their sister, Alice), hence the age gap between the brothers. That and the fact that in Benji's wonderful turn of phrase, 'our mum was no better than she ought to be'. 

“I was not aware that you had a third brother”, I said.

“Neither were we until yesterday, sir”, Benji said dryly. “You know that our parents had planned to move to England a few years before Lloyd's birth?”

I nodded. Benji's father had at least been financially secure; his wife's family had had a large stake in a South African gold mine.

“Dad was held up because of some problem with his business in Africa, sir”, Benji said, “so Mum went on ahead and settled in here. They had got a place in Clerkenwell – too big really but then that was dad for you – and she hired a Scotsman called Mr. Daniel Hunter to run the place. They, uh..... you know.”

I 'knew'. The price for the stability of the Victorian family unit was the more than occasional blind eye to what was going on beneath the veil of propriety. Far too often horizontal goings-on.

Benji smiled warmly at me and I could hear John shifting uncomfortably on his chair. The behemoth was very happily married with an amazing ten children – probably even more amazing was that Bertha whom he loved dearly was not yet pregnant with number eleven, although surely that was only a matter of months if not hours, the dog! – and I knew that the behemoth was also responsible for a certain cousin's limp the last time he had called – well, that and the fact Luke had been a little too prideful when we had met at the gymnasium and I may or may not have arranged some time off work for Benji so that he could give Luke a quadruple session. With some extra 'supplies' from our favourite Baker Street shop....

“We neither of us knew about this”, Lloyd said, rolling his eyes at his teasing brother, “until the lawyer came round. We knew of dad's death last week but we hadn't expected to get anything from him – he made it clear when we moved out, that was that as far as he was concerned, and we expected his estate to go to Uncle Brian back in South Africa. But it seems they had a falling-out for some reason. The lawyer visited us yesterday and told us that the estate is to be sold, and that we are to get one-third each.”

The young men's father had been one of three sons to share the family business so that would make them both well-off if not rich, I thought. I would have to keep an eye on that, as I knew from long experience that money attracted the wrong sort of people much as a dead animal in the African plains attracted vultures.

“So your mother's relationship with her steward produced a son”, I said, thinking that this sounded like another terrible story that my own mother must never learn of it as it might 'inspire' her to write something even worse than her usual output, unlikely though that seemed (I had learned the very hard way never to underestimate her). “Yet your father was prepared to acknowledge the boy as his own, if only in his will. That is unusual.”

“Almost unknown”, John agreed.

“We wondered if you might help us track down our kin, sir”, Benji said.

I looked curiously at him. One of his little quirks was that he used 'sir' even more than usual when he was nervous, and also tended to fold his hands over each other. But what about even this curious tale would make him feel like that?

“It is a pity that I cannot go straight to the efficient Miss St. Leger”, I frowned. “She is in Scotland this week and I know how much she has been looking forward to this holiday, so I do not wish to disturb her even by applying to Swordland's; knowing her she might well curtail her holiday to assist. Do you happen to know the name of this half-brother, Benji?”

The behemoth nodded.

“His name was in the will so the lawyer could tell us that at least, sir”, he said. “Mr. Daniel Hunter, like his father. That fellow quit after... you know, and went back to Scotland, but the lawyer said that we might apply to the housekeeper at the house. She knew a lot about what was going on, he said.”

“He called her a right nosy old bat!” Lloyd put in.

I smiled at that.

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Clerkenwell is a run-down suburb a little way south of the Thames in what looks nothing like the rest of rural Surrey, but 'Pretoria House' was one of the few large houses in it. I sent up my card wishing that John's leg had been well enough for him to be with me and was soon in the Presence (capital required) of the housekeeper Mrs. Bridge, a formidably large lady who was giving me the sort of look that would have had a hazel-eyed someone rolling his eyes in despair. He certainly would later when I 'accidentally' mentioned it to him; a jealous John was so much more demanding when it came to certain activities.

 _“Such_ a scandal!” the woman said disapprovingly. “Mr. William was a nice man, despite his being black. His wife though – she was certainly no lady. Just in it for the money we all thought. Behind his back she called him a half-breed – he was almost as black as she was though I remember hearing somewhere that his own grandfather was a Red Indian would you believe? The word downstairs was that several of the bairns that didn't make it were also hers by other men but her fool husband loved her enough to not notice if you know what I mean.”

I knew what she meant, even without all the nodding and winking. Worse, she had not even served coffee to take my mind off things.

“Mr. Hunter on the other hand, he was a gentleman”, she went on. “Mrs. J. got her claws into him the moment she arrived but he refused her, and it was only when he got drunk one night that.... you know.”

That they did rather more than wave their arms about in a vague manner. I knew.

“Mr. Hunter, he was _appalled_ by what he'd done”, she said firmly. “He wanted to quit immediately but she persuaded him to stay on until Mr. William came over from South Africa. Poor fellow was out the door the very morning the master was due back and high-tailed it back to his home in Scotland somewhere; I only know it was on one of them there islands. She had more than a bit of explaining to do with her being ready to pop and not having seen Mr. William for a while. She probably thought she'd swung it, but when the boy was born he was lily-white! _That_ put the cat amongst the pigeons good and proper!”

I supposed that it had. Even Victorians could only overlook so much.

“She got her way, mostly”, the housekeeper said disdainfully. “No way the master could have kept the boy in the house so he tracked down Mr. Daniel and paid him to keep himself up in Scotland. People would have talked otherwise.”

I was fairly sure that people had talked anyway. Because people were people.

“Please go on”, I said. She managed another coquettish look but did so. At least her tea was tolerable even if her cake was sub-standard.

“The master and the mistress had young Master Lloyd two years after”, she said. “He went off to join Master Benjamin in London son as he could; both fine young gentlemen whatever anyone says about them. It was just after that when the master had had a falling-out with his brother Abroad for some reason and rewrote his will. The mistress was ill then with what would get her in the end – something from all that sleeping around I bet! - and he made all three boys joint heirs because she asked. I did think that he might change his mind once she'd gone but he stuck to his word.”

“He did not name his daughters as heiresses, then?” I asked. She shook her head.

“Mrs. J.'s money all went into a trust or some such thing”, she said. “She had shares in that mine of theirs and half each went to Miss Ivy and Miss Alice. That was them taken good care of, I suppose.”

_(Coincidentally Miss Alice Jackson-Giles was currently engaged to LeStrade's younger brother Bors. After our encounter with him back in 'Eighty (The Adventure Of Drake's Drum) he had continued to live in north Devonshire with his nephew LeStrade eldest son Gereint, but a chance visit to London had introduced the older man to Miss Jackson-Giles. He had been forty at the time and she only twenty-nine but it had been clear that they had something between them, and their marriage had been arranged for the end of the year)._

“Did young Master Daniel ever come down to visit?” I asked. She shook her head.

“But I did hear that his father had passed this January and he had sold his estate”, she said. “Lord Saye purchased it as a hunting-lodge and they mentioned the old owner's name. No idea where the boy went, though.”

 _Probably to South Africa with my luck_ , I thought glumly. I thanked the lady for her time and made my escape, though not before being on the receiving end of yet another look. 

_Seriously?_

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The keening cry that I had just dragged out of the man lying broken before me was, perhaps, ever so slightly more than satisfying. John stared up at me clearly wondering if he should start begging for mercy, and clearly wanting to make this last as long – hah! - as possible.

“How in the name of all that his holy have you not come yet?” he moaned. “I have nothing left in me, and it _hurts!”_

“But such a delicious pain, is it not?” I grinned, reaching under myself and removing the cock-ring. He stared at me as if I was some sort of cheater.

“That is just unfair!” he cried. “You made me wait all that time!”

I eased him up and gave him a drink of water, quietly(ish) proud of having wrecked so great a man. Then I passed him over the cock-ring. He paled.

“You are seriously not suggesting....”

It was an idea but I really did not want to kill him through sex, much as that was definitely the way to go when (hopefully many years into the future) our times finally came. Instead I opened the ring and showed him what was on the inside.

“'Property of Doctor John Watson, M.D.'” he read. “You really are bad, you know!”

I smirked and waited for him to get it. It did not take long; his eyes widened in horror.

“Tell me where you got this engraved so that I never go there!”

I chuckled and set to work once more.

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The following morning I sent telegrams to Benji and Lloyd telling them what had happened; as the matter was not urgent I had decided to wait four days until Miss St. Leger's return before asking for her help. I then returned to enjoy a delicious breakfast, even if I did have to take some food into the bedroom for someone who was not yet recovered enough to hold a plate. Because I was a good mate.

Of course I still got half his bacon. I held his coffee cup for him. I even drank half of it so it was lighter for him to hold, because I was so good. He was very lucky to have me.

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Miss St. Leger proved as efficient as ever and two days after her return we again had two visitors at Baker Street. This time Benji was accompanied by my brother Carl, whose son Charles had just made him a grandfather again with the arrival of young Alfred (I may or may not have sniffed when he had told me it was partly in my honour).

“Luke says that he is all tied up just now”, Carl explained, “so he asked me to come.”

“Mr. Lucifer likes being all tied up!” Benji grinned. Poor Carl turned bright red.

“The ever-efficient Miss St. Leger has tracked down your half-brother, Benji”, I told him, not at all smiling at John's very evident annoyance at the nickname. “When his father died he sold his estate and moved down to Berkshire.”

“Why there, sir?” Benji asked.

“He wished to follow his own father and train up to be a steward”, I explained. “That shows some character I would add; his wealth is such that he could live adequately if not extravagantly off his savings. There is an institution some way south of Didcot called Churn Castle that provides an intensive training course and he is enrolled there; they are developing quite a good reputation in service circles from what I hear. He has completed his studies and is currently staying on while he seeks employment in London.”

I got a sharp look from the resident major-general in the room for that. He had told me that he was looking for a new steward, and clearly suspected that something was afoot. He was a soldier, after all.

“Does he know about us, sir?” Benji asked anxiously.

“Yes.”

The behemoth was clearly taken aback by my forthrightness. He gulped nervously, and I smiled reassuringly at him.

“You were concerned lest he reject you”, I said softly, “and given the family circumstances that was a possibility. I have however communicated with him and explained the situation, and he has said that he is looking forward to seeing his family.”

Benji sniffed. For all that he could do the fierce savage act when needed he really was a big softie at heart. Rather amusingly he forgot himself and pulled my brother into a hug, before remembering that he had the wrong family member.

“Mr. Carlyon, sir!” he spluttered. “I'm so sorry!”

And there was the maximum 'woe is me' look, I got to actually see one of Her Majesty's toughest soldiers folding before it.

“That is all right, Ben”, he said gruffly.

He glared at me for some reason. I had no idea why; I was very clearly not smirking. I could hardly have not-smirked any louder!

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The four of us left for Paddington whence we would take a train to Churn. John's leg was not quite right yet – he had graciously consented to some of what he called 'that manly embracing that I liked' the other night, and I had graciously consented not to refer to it as the thing that started with a 'C' and rhymed with huddling – but he was very clearly not leaving me with Benji even if Carl was there. Not that he was the jealous sort of lover.

He was looking at me suspiciously for some reason. Again. I had to work even harder not to smirk. I think that I managed it. Sort of.

We changed at Didcot for the short journey up onto the Berkshire Downs where King Alfred had won his great victory at Ashdown (I did listen to John _sometimes)_. Churn was the first stop; we had had to request the train to call there as it was only a halt serving the Castle and a nearby rifle-range. 

Churn Castle was one of those curious new buildings that were designed to look old, in this case like a small medieval castle complete with towers and crenellations. There was a fine view down to the distant Thames but I could not help but think that this place had to be extremely cold as well as likely being cut off come winter. There were still patches of snow from the heavy fall that had blanketed London last week and had caused John and I to have to stay indoors.

We had coped, apart from that ankle.

We were shown into the presence of Mr. Thomas Matheson who owned this establishment, and who had been most helpful in my communications with Mr. Hunter.

“You are here to see Danny”, he smiled. “He is probably still abed.”

“At this hour?” Carl asked, surprised. 

“Two of the boys got into a fight in Didcot last night”, our host explained. “Not their fault as they were attacked by a gang of thugs; Danny went down to sort it all out. He did not get back until just before dawn so I said that he should catch up on his sleep especially as he is finished training now. I will have James show you the way up and you can talk to him.”

I felt Benji tense without even looking at him.

“I think that you had better go up by yourself, Benji”, I said. “It would be good if he saw family first.”

He looked at me gratefully. A servant appeared at the door and Benji loped off after him while Mr. Matheson rang for drinks for the rest of us.

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It was full half an hour later that a message came down asking us to join Benji and his half-brother. We went up into what must have been one of the corner towers and found the door open for us. Inside I found Benji looking supremely happy, he and his half-brother Mr. Hunter both sitting on the couch.

I could see at once why Benji's mother might have had quite some explaining to do a couple of decades back. Although Mr. Daniel Hunter was physically and facially very similar to his half-brother, he did indeed have pale, almost ivory-white skin. He had carefully trimmed blond hair and was clearly not one to stand on ceremony as he was wearing only his underpants – although at least that very clearly demonstrated at least one other familial similarity!

Mr. Hunter smiled in welcome at us.

“You must be the famous and helpful Mr. Sherlock Holmes to whom I own my current happiness”, he said with barely a trace of any Scots accent. “Doctor Watson, of course. And....”

He looked curiously at Carl.

“This is my brother, Major-General Carlyon Holmes”, I said. “It is good to see you, sir. You said that you might be moving to London soon?”

The fellow nodded.

“Tommy wants me to stay on here as a sort of reserve doctor”, he said, “but all the jobs are in the smoke.”

“You have medical training?” John asked.

“They do three courses here and I took the advanced one”, he said. “You never know when that sort of thing might come in handy.”

My brother looked at me even more suspiciously. I could understand why; this seemed almost too convenient given his wife's recent illness which John had said was serious.

“Are you single?” Carl demanded abruptly.

Mr. Hunter smiled.

“I am, sir”, he said. “Why? Are you proposing?”

I had the rare pleasure of seeing the mighty Carlyon Holmes lost for words. He spluttered indignantly.

“I am looking for a steward just now”, he said, still eyeing me suspiciously (no, I was still definitely not smirking), “and someone with medical training would be a definite bonus. But I would need someone committed, not some fellow who is going to head off and spend all his time at the pub or with his family.”

“I rarely drink, sir”, Mr. Hunter smiled, “and as I have no wish to add to the world's already excessive population I would not be expecting to have a family. Besides, I rather think that a lady might need to be involved somewhere down the line for that to happen, although the way science is progressing these days, one never knows. When would you like me to start?”

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Mr. Hunter duly returned to London with Carl and after a few days spent with Benji and Lloyd moved into my brother's servants' quarters as the new steward. Thankfully Carl's wife Anne, who for all her good points could be temperamental at times, took to him at once although my brother very clearly suspected me of planning the whole thing. I had not (for once) but I was glad that things had worked out so well.

John of course was not at all jealous of Benji's visit, mainly because I fucked him hard enough to forget about it (and probably to forget his own name at one point!). Unfortunately my happy afterglow was ruined when Randall came round to Baker Street soon after to moan about something or other (I was not paying attention to just what). I said that I quite agreed with what he had said and on a totally unrelated matter how was Lady Feilding's recently-married daughter Alys doing just now? 

The look on his face!

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	11. Interlude: One Of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. On the train back to the big smoke.

_[Narration by Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles, Esquire]_

I got a knowing look from Mr. Sherlock when I took Danny away 'for some air' on our way back to London. Fortunately he and the doctor had Mr. Carlyon with them so I doubted they'd get up to any funny business - though you never knew with them!

Mr. Carlyon is a bit weird, by the way. Not the way he is I mean, but the way he looks so like Mr. Lucifer at first, and it's only when you look again that you can see the differences. Not that there are any differences – they could be twins really – but there's something of the army about Mr. Carlyon in the way he just is, while my Mr. Lucifer is all government. Or usually all screaming while I fuck him hoarse!

“This is where you give me the talk to not get involved, brother”, Danny grinned. He really was a younger, pale-skinned version of me, not surprising I suppose given we were brothers, and the fact that I knew Mr. Lucifer liked it a lot when Mr. Sweyn let us borrow Lloyd for special occasions.... well, my man had said he couldn't possibly be more wrecked. 

He might be about to be wrong on that!

“I'm just saying it's difficult for Mr. Carlyon”, I said. “First there's his wife. He loves her and his kids, but she's on her way out of this world and he hates that. It wears on him, and a man can react badly when that happens.”

“I suppose his being around all those fit young men in his barracks doesn't help”, Danny said. “Not that there aren't some in the Army who'd take advantage of that.”

“Not Mr. Carlyon”, I said firmly. “He's very like my Mr. Lucifer, all honour and decency. But from what I hear he is one of us, or at least like me.”

“I don't think that you did to your government official the other week comes under 'decency', brother!” he grinned. “Remind me again how much unguent did he need before he could sit down again?”

I blushed. Me and my big mouth!

“I'd never make a move on any married man”, he said, “least of all the brother of the fellow who found you for me. I promise you that, brother.”

“Thanks.”

“So”, he said brightly, “when do I get my turn to come fuck the government?”

“You're terrible!” I sighed.

“Remind me how many kids do you have?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow at me.

I sighed. I knew how Mr. Sherlock felt at times. Brothers!

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	12. Case 208: The Untimely Death Of Cardinal Tosca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. Animals as well as humans benefited from Sherlock's great talent – and those who did wrong, thinking that it was 'only an animal' were, in my genius friend's eyes, equally deserving of his attentions. Especially in this case where an international incident may well have resulted from a man's good intentions.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Contrary to what some annoying blue-eyed personage in the vicinity claimed I did _not_ preen! However the review in the 'Times' of his latest adventure that I had had published in the 'Strand' magazine, the one concerning the Golden Pince-Nez, had been some way beyond glowing. I redoubled my efforts to finish our Wembley adventure (The Adventure Of Wisteria Lodge) and hoped that I would soon have more cases that I would be able lay before the British public so that they could fully appreciate my friend's genius.

In our next two cases I was as it turned out to be disappointed. Which was a pity, because both involved the application of justice in Sherlock's own inimitable way and the first in particular went from work-place bullying via an unusual obituary to a narrowly-averted diplomatic crisis and, ultimately, a(nother) body found floating face-down in the Thames. 

Whatever else one says about my life with Sherlock, it certainly did not lack variety!

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I have mentioned more than one occasion of the empire of molly-houses originally run by Sherlock's half-brother Mr. Campbell Kerr, now happily retired with his lover Mr. Alan Buxted. I still enjoyed exercising my philanthropic side by tending to the 'boys' (several of whom like our landlady's soon to be husband Mr. Malone were, I would like to note, older than myself) who now worked under Mr. Kerr's successor Mr. Godfreyson, even though he was assisted (most tiresomely) by a certain leering former Cornish ex-fisherman who seemed to find reasons to visit Baker Street far too often for my liking. It was fortunate that I was not the jealous sort, or there may well have been Pouting at his and Mr. Jackson-Giles's far too frequent calls.

One key to the sordid business's success was that like his predecessor Mr. Godfreyson practised absolute discretion, except of course in cases of criminality. Quite a few of the handsome Viking's 'boys' held positions in society that would doubtless have shocked those around them had they known of their 'proclivities'. One such was our visitor that day Mr. Marco Falcone, some thirty-four years of age and a secretary to the Papal Legate. Or as quite a few gentlemen who 'knew' him rather more intimately, 'Centurion Marcus Maximus'. And being his doctor, I can confirm that it is indeed true what they say about Italian men.

Sherlock was staring at me suspiciously for some reason. 

“Doctor Watson has been a loyal friend to myself and those in our industry”, our visitor said to Sherlock, “and I know how integral he is to your work. It is a strange case that I lay before you today as it may be one of murder.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him.

“You are unsure as to whether someone has been murdered?” he asked clearly a little bemused. 

The answer was even stranger.

“Sir I am unsure as to whether the 'victim' even existed! But whether he did it not, he has the capacity to cause no end of trouble, up to and including a political earthquake!”

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“To begin with”, Mr. Falcone said, a look of distaste on his handsome features, “I must regrettably talk politics. As you are doubtless aware the position of the Holy Father at the moment is a most precarious one. Ever since the unification of Italy Pope Leo has been all but a prisoner behind the walls of the Vatican, while the Italian state has flagrantly and shamelessly stripped the Papacy of its rightful possessions up and down the peninsula. The Holy Father is a good man and we hope that he has many years left in him but it is what happens next that concerns me and many others. If the Good Lord should gather him to his bosom any time soon there could well be serious problems.”

I thought back to our Continental haunt and our venture into papal politics over the stolen cameos. It seemed a lifetime ago but I felt that ring on my finger as well as its companion, and smiled. I still had my Sherlock and that was all that mattered to me.

“Popes are elected by a conclave are they not?” my friend said, his slight smile telling me that his thoughts had strayed in a similar direction. Our guest nodded.

“That is where the problem lies”, he said. “The cardinals who make the decision are as of now finely balanced between what in this country one might term conservatives and liberals. One influential or charismatic red hat with a few followers could swing things either way, and as you know popes are elected for life. It is that which has brought me to your door today.”

He opened his polished brown brief-case and extracted a copy of the 'Times' (renowned for its excellent book reviews, I might add) folded to the Births, Deaths And Marriages section. He handed it to Sherlock who perused the short marked item before passing it to me. It read as follows:

_‘Regrets for the untimely passing of the talented and promising Cardinal Tosca. Be ye blessed with a fast track to Heaven, where all such souls rightly go.’_

“Who is this ‘Cardinal Tosca’?” Sherlock asked. Our visitor shrugged his shoulders (he even managed to do that elegantly!).

“We have no idea”, he said. “Unfortunately the recent upheavals mean that we have lost touch with many of the more distant cardinals, and as the last election was seventeen years ago our records are not so much incomplete as hopelessly out-of-date. The instability caused by such a tiny article has been truly awful! Both sides suspect the other of removing someone from their side and there may even be a schism. All because of two lines in a foreign newspaper!”

_(It should be noted at this point that the Thunderer of those times was more powerful than it is today (1936) and that it had successfully forced changes on both government and businesses on several occasions.)._

Sherlock frowned.

“This is a private article”, he said. “Surely it would be possible to approach the newspaper and ask them for the name of the person who had submitted it? I know that the 'Times' protects its own, but if they came to understand the political ramifications then surely they might be prepared to make an exception?”

Our visitor blushed.

“With things the way that they are”, he said carefully, “I was summoned back to Rome last week to talk directly to the Holy Father himself. I am sorry to say that neither side trusts the other to investigate the case fairly, and there is as you might guess an even deeper distrust of foreign police. But your name is renowned, sir, and everyone knows that you follow the path of justice. I have been instructed to ask if you would be so kind as to investigate this matter for us, to whatever conclusion you may reach.”

I knew that Sherlock had little in the way of religion himself, which may have been an added plus in this case. I myself did not go to the Sunday services but liked to spend some time quietly by myself in the local parish church when no-one else was about.

“I would be honoured to take the case”, my friend said with a smile. 

“If you send for me at my address when you are done, I can dispatch your findings to Rome securely”, Mr. Falcone said, looking relieved as he placed a card onto the fireside table. “Although we would telegraph the Holy Father first to assure him that all was well. If, that is, all _is_ well.”

He stood and bowed to us, then left. Sherlock stared thoughtfully into the fire. 

“This is odd”, I said. “It cannot be murder, surely? One does not kill someone and then advertise the fact in the 'Times' of all places!”

He smiled.

“Unless of course the whole plan is to cause instability in the Vatican”, he said. “Like The Sign Of The Four, when the events – and deaths - leading up were incidental to the criminal's ultimate aim. Pope Leo has withheld formal recognition of King Umberto as the rightful ruler of the peninsula, which must sting as it means that many Catholics both there and around the world will feel compelled to follow his lead. The Italian government might think that an unstable Vatican could cause Pope Leo or his successor to ‘come to heel’.”

“Religion _and_ politics”, I sighed. “Never a good mixture.”

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That same afternoon we went to the offices of the 'Times'. The clerk who greeted us was polite enough but unfortunately the article had been placed anonymously and paid for in cash. It seemed that we were at a dead-end and Sherlock might have to call in his brother Randall for help, which was an awful thought.

Our evening back at Baker Street was interrupted however by the arrival of a young fellow of around twenty-five years of age who introduced himself as a Mr. Paul Tadworth, a clerk at the very newspaper that we had not long come from. He had overheard our conversation with his superior, and while he had of course been unable to say anything at the time, he knew our address from my books and wished to help.

“I was there when the fellow put the article in”, he said, “though Bill – Mr. Potter – he was the one who took it all down. Mr. Femmy who you spoke to was I am afraid not completely honest with you; the fellow placing the article _did_ give his name but asked that the article be anonymous so it was not actually recorded. Mr. Femmy had not written it down so he just wrote 'anon' as we do in such cases. The man was a Mr. Alfred Wright.”

“A common enough name”, I said with a sigh. “There must be dozens of them in London.”

“Can you describe him at all?” Sherlock asked.

“Between forty and fifty, grey hair, medium build”, the young clerk said. “His clothes were dark and a little shabby. He had the purple temperance badge sewn into his coat; I saw it as he took it off the coat-stand when he left. His accent was not from the local area, although I am sure it was somewhere in London. Also he might own a dog.”

We looked at him in surprise.

“He brought a dog into the newspaper office?” I asked. Our visitor shook his head.

“I walk my sister's dog from time to time”, he explained, “and she has one of those leads with a strap that you can wrap around your wrist to avoid it being pulled out of your hand. It always leaves an odd oval mark when I use it, and I saw that this fellow had the same mark on his wrist.”

“We thank you for bringing this information to us”, Sherlock said slipping him a coin. The young man’s eyes lit up when he saw it (my friend was always far too generous with people in my opinion), and he bowed himself out almost falling over his feet in the process. I strongly suspected that the local taverns were about to become equally if not even more appreciative of my friend's munificence.

“I shall probably still have to call in the resources of my irritating brother after all”, he said with a sigh. “The temperance movements are not much less secretive than the Thunderer at the end of the day.”

“At least he will help you from now on”, I said. “He knows which famous female writer of certain 'memorable' stories will be Annoyed with him if he does not!” 

He shook his head at me but smiled, and jotted down a few notes before summoning a boy to send a telegram. It was late but if his pestilential brother got the note tonight then perhaps by tomorrow or the day after, we could be on our way.

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It turned out that I had been right about the commonness of the article-writer’s name, and we were fortunate that young Mr. Tadworth had been so observant in his observations. Mr. Randall Holmes had headed off to France for some crisis or other (how we would miss him - not!) but his note was passed to Sherlock's cousin Mr. Garrick who found four temperance society Alfred Wrights for us that were roughly in the right age range and lived in the London area, although only one was possessed of a dog. Two were at a society based in the Minories, a third at one in King’s Cross and a fourth further out at one in Walthamstow. Since his message reached us relatively late in the day we decided to wait until the next day to start off.

However, that day and the next saw London embraced in a pea-souper of a fog, and all travel seemed inadvisable. I spent the morning of the following day working on my writings while Sherlock went out to see a client over some trifling little matter. At least it had seemed trifling, but when he did not come back for lunch as he had planned I started to worry. Even more so when dinner was served and he was still not back.

When he did finally come back through the door it was quickly clear that he was in a foul mood. I hurried over to him.

“Have you eaten?” I asked anxiously.

He shook his head and shuddered as he all but fell into me.

“Family!” he muttered angrily.

“Shall we go out for some food?” I suggested. “I do not want to risk Mrs. Hudson's wrath this late in the evening, though as it is you I am sure she would not mind.”

He shook his head again.

“She is making me some bacon sandwiches”, he said, peeling himself away from me. I immediately felt cold at his absence. I am soaked to the skin. I need to change.”

He almost staggered across to his door and closed it behind him. Just moments later there was a knock at the door, and with Mrs. Hudson's usual hyper-efficiency it was a maid with Sherlock's food. I thanked her and took it to the table then went over to his room. For once I did not knock but walked straight in. He was just standing by the bed, looking forlorn and still in his wet clothes.

“Come on”, I said firmly. He needed warming up and the first job was to get him out of those sodden layers. 

I stripped him as quickly as I could then led him unprotestingly to the bathroom, where I stared to run a hot bath adding his favourite bubble-bath under the steaming water. I was testing the waters when he suddenly grabbed me by the arm.

“Never leave me!” he said urgently.

“I never will!” I said firmly. I turned off the tap and shrugged off my dressing-gown – fortunately I had got ready for bed shortly before his return – then I led him into the bath and sat us both down, his taller form for once nestling into mine with a contented sigh amidst the foaming bubbles. I cursed silently that I had forgotten to bring in the sandwiches but we would not be in there for long. They would keep.

Sherlock slowly unwound to me as to why he had been gone for so long. The 'client' had turned out to be a ruse for Sherlock's brothers Mycroft and Torver to see him, and he had been far from pleased. It concerned the recently arrived Mr. Daniel Hunter who had been the subject of our last case. It turned out that he had a distant paternal cousin whom he had never met but who had strong links to an Irish terrorist grouping, and Sherlock's brothers had asked their youngest sibling him to approach the soldier in order to have him sacked (I observed that they had not been brave enough to see the major-general themselves, the cowards!). The 'Telegraph' had uncovered the link and had made great play with it in its edition today, and little though that newspaper was read by Londoners the unpleasant Holmeses had decided to make a fuss.

Sherlock nestled into me even further, seemingly trying to push me out of the bath and I began to soap him down gently, working the cold out of his exhausted body. He was my true love and it was my job to care for him. Always and forever.

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Sherlock said nothing about his family problems the following day but the look he gave me when I held him that morning was of such undying gratitude that I nearly burst with happiness. It was most definitely an 'all my bacon occasion'. Fortunately the fog had cleared enough for us to set out on our travels and we started with the Alfred Wright in King’s Cross, the sole dog-owner among our targets. 

“Fifty-nine, widowed and a bank clerk”, I said dubiously. “He does not exactly seem to have got on in life.”

“That from a forty-three-year-old man who not so long ago was panicking about how old he was?” Sherlock teased. 

I swatted at him. I had been more than energetic enough the night before in keeping up with him when he had worked out his anger on my poor backside and he should have remembered that. I did. Well parts of me certainly did and the designers of the London hansom really needed to improve its suspension!

“I wonder what made him turn to the demon drink?” I mused, wincing at another rut in this excuse for a road.

“His file says that his wife died some years back”, Sherlock observed, smiling slightly for some reason. “Possibly that was the trigger. His society friends say that he has been sober for at least a year now.”

“How can they be sure?” I wondered. 

“No-one can”, he said. “Every man is to a certain extent his own judge, jury and executioner. But I dare say that the society has various ways and means of detecting those who have ‘fallen off the wagon’.”

Alfred Wright (number one) lived in a small terraced house not far from the Great Northern Railway’s terminus. It was a mean building but the outside looked well cared-for. It was a day off from the bank as he only worked three days a week there. He had no idea about the advertisement or any clue as to who ‘Cardinal Tosca’ was. He came across as rather dull but honest, worse luck.

We met further dead-ends with the two Alfred Wrights in the Minories; the first had been down with chicken-pox for the past two weeks (a neighbour confirmed this) while the other, although matching the physical description fairly well, had been visiting a relative in Ilford on the day in question. He had kept the ticket for his nephew who collected such things and was quite happy to show it to us.

“Though he could have been lying”, I said, feeling even as I spoke that I was clutching at straws. 

“To what end?” Sherlock asked. “He must know that we could check his story at the station or even with his relative. No, if our last port of call does not yield anything, we are faced with the fact that the man who placed the article used a pseudonym. In short we would have very little to go on.”

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The fourth Alfred Wright was not too far out age-wise at around thirty-five but had striking blond-white hair and was a little under six foot tall. He also had a very visible tattoo on each wrist. I could see that we would not be lucky here. 

But as so often, I was to be proved wrong. Sherlock showed him the advertisement and the fellow's face reddened at once. 

“It is devilishly awkward”, he said. “It is not my place to tell you, so I would really appreciate it if you kept my name out of the whole mess.”

“Despite the doctor’s writings we can be surprisingly discreet”, Sherlock said, avoiding my glare. “If you can supply us with any information to solve this case we would not reveal to anyone how we came by it.”

“May I ask how you came by my name?” Mr. Wright asked.

“The gentleman who placed this advertisement gave his name over the counter”, Sherlock explained, “and a source of ours – whom of course we may not name – passed the information onto us.”

“The man you are looking for is a colleague of mine at work”, the fellow said. “His name is Mr. Hannibal Uttley so I cannot wonder that he preferred to use my name even for an anonymous article. Given all that he has been through of late, I suppose that I must forgive him. He is a good fellow.”

“Forties, grey hair, shabby clothes, of medium build and has a dog?” I asked.

“He is fifty-two but yes, that sounds like him”, Mr, Wright said. “We work at the same bank and some of the other men teased him about this when they read it, the bastards!”

“Do you happen to know who ‘Cardinal Tosca’ is?” Sherlock asked.

He smiled, looking a little sad as he did so.

“I think it best if Mr. Uttley tells you the tale himself”, he said. “I have read your stories, sir, and I know that you will deal fairly with him otherwise I would not have given you his name. I am trusting you a lot here so please do not let me down. I will tell you one thing though; Cardinal Tosca was – and in some way still is – a lady!”

We both stared in astonishment.

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Mr. Hannibal Uttley lived in Hackney so we took the train back as far as Hackney Downs Station before a cab took us to his house, which though modest backed onto open fields. There was no answer when we came to the door so we went round the back. A middle aged fellow was sat reading on a bench, a sleek greyhound resting at his feet looking supremely bored at his master’s inactivity. It looked up as we approached then clearly dismissed us as uninteresting and laid its head down again.

“Mr. Hannibal Uttley?” Sherlock asked.

There was a smile in his voice and I looked at him in surprise. He knew something. But what?

“I am, sirs”, the fellow said politely. “And you are?”

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson”, Sherlock said. “We have come about your article in the 'Times'.”

The man turned a strange shade of red.

“I have heard of your fame Mr. Holmes, but I hardly think my private matters merit your interest. Especially after the ribbing that I have endured at work of late.”

Sherlock did not reply but looked down at the dog.

“Who is this?” he asked. 

The man looked at him suspiciously.

“This is Kate”, he said shortly. 

“Yet dogs, like horses, have longer official names”, Sherlock said. “Does 'Kate' partake in these new greyhound races that are all the rage?”

“She is too young”, the man said, his tone now definitely defensive. “When she is a little older I may enter her.”

“She is named after her mother is she not?” Sherlock asked. 

I still had no idea what he was driving at, but somehow Mr. Uttley turned even redder.

“You know”, he said sullenly.

“You may care to learn”, Sherlock said, “that much as I sympathize with and even condone your actions, your fond farewell nearly generated an international incident.”

“What?” the man exclaimed, clearly shocked. “How?”

“When the different factions at the papal court in Rome read about the death of one ‘Cardinal Tosca' in a major English newspaper”, Sherlock said, “ they immediately did what people in high positions do best - run around in circles and panic like headless chickens. Each assumed that the other had killed off a cardinal from their side, although given the normal state of Italian politics that was perhaps not so unreasonable an assumption. Yet the clues were there, were they not? When you talked about your late dog ‘taking the fast track’, you were referring to a _race-_ track. While the heaven reference was because per the saying, all dogs go to heaven.”

“Kate is up there now”, the man said confidently. “Heaven would not be heaven without dogs. My friends think that I am mad to value my canine friends above my human ones, but dogs have always treated me better. Especially of late.”

“May I inquire as to how Kate’s mother died?” Sherlock asked. The man’s face darkened.

“Poisoned!” he spat out.

“Who would kill a dog?” I asked.

“Reg Clooney, that’s who!” the man said angrily.

Sherlock gave him a look that said quite clearly ‘explain, please’. The man sighed.

“When I joined the Temperance Society they got me a job at the local bank”, he explained. “Three days a week on trial for a year, but if I stayed clean they said they’d consider me for full-time. Clooney wants his son to join him there so he thought poisoning poor Kate would make me fall off the wagon.”

“Are you sure of this?” Sherlock asked. The man nodded.

“My neighbour saw him come to my house one day when I was visiting my sister and drop something in the garden”, he said. “He knew I'd be out that day. Kate died of eating poisoned meat the vet told me, but when I looked for it he had come round and took it away. But he boasted about it to his 'friends' at work when I wasn't there; Alfie Wright overheard and told me. I owe him for that and I'm sorry I used his name at the paper, but with a moniker like mine.......”

“We spoke to him and he has forgiven you, I am sure”, Sherlock said reassuringly. “Pray, which bank do you work at, sir?”

“Barclay's in Tottenham High Road”, he said. “Why?”

“Just curious”, Sherlock said, looking at his watch. He pulled out his notebook and wrote something down which he passed to Mr. Uttley. “That is the address of one Mr. Albert Moray. I think that you two share a lot in common. You may find a visit to him rather interesting. Thank you for your time, sir. Goodbye, Cardinal Tosca.”

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“He nearly caused an international incident by saying farewell to a _dog?”_ I asked incredulously as we walked back to the high road to hail a cab. 

“Man’s best friend”, Sherlock reminded me. “Think on it, doctor. We see all types of humanity in our work, from the truly good to the purely evil. Yet a dog is only bad if someone deliberately and maliciously trains it so to be. They are the children of our world, and it is unsurprising that some value them so highly.”

“I do not mind dogs”, I said. “It is cats that I am allergic to.”

“Ah.”

I looked at him warily.

 _“'Ah?'”_ I said testily. “What do you mean, _'ah'?”_

“I may have asked our estimable landlady what she and Mr. Malone would like as a wedding present”, he said, looking anywhere but at me. “I am afraid that her answer may have had a certain feline quality about it.”

I groaned. Any cat in the neighbourhood seemed to be able to detect my allergy and would try to clamber all over me at the first opportunity. And now 221B might be getting its own.

“Maybe I should get a dog!” I sighed.

He just laughed, the bastard.

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To my surprise Sherlock directed the cab-driver not back to the railway station but to Mr. Uttley’s bank, where he asked if the manager could spare him a few moments of his precious time. We were shown quickly into the offices of a smartly-attired middle-aged blond fellow called Mr. Roderick Smith who was clearly of conflicting emotions; pleased to meet someone famous but nervous lest his bank be dragged into some investigation of ours.

“I would like to begin”, Sherlock said firmly, “by assuring you that the _highly_ sensitive and _extremely_ important investigation – the _international_ investigation - that I have just concluded, in no way reflects badly on this illustrious institution.”

Mr. Smith’s relief was palpable.

“That is good news, sir”, he said. “May I ask what brings you here today, then?”

Sherlock leaned forward conspiratorially.

“This investigation concerned a Major European Power”, he said. “Although I said that your bank was not affected by this case sir, I have to qualify that by noting that the foolish and extremely unwise actions of one of your employees left you but a hair's breadth from being dragged right into the middle of it!”

I suppressed a smile; the Papacy was hardly a major power. But the effect on Mr. Smith was strong indeed; he went very pale and ran his finger around his collar.”

“The strange part was”, Sherlock said, “that the actual intention of your hopelessly incompetent and disaster-prone employee was merely spiteful and vindictive, and that he probably – I hope – did not intend to cause the major repercussions that I have just had to work so hard to avert. I shall very generously assume that when Mr. Reginald Clooney decided to poison the dog of Mr. Hannibal Uttley, he could not know that such _terrible_ events would so nearly unfold as a result. I can only say that luck has played a major part in my investigations and that the danger is now fully past, although it has been a close-run thing. Had events turned out only a little differently the whole _farrago_ would certainly have been traced to this bank, which would of course have meant that _your_ name would have been in all the newspapers.”

“Newspapers?” Mr. Smith gasped, his eyes wide with shock. 

“Right across the Continent”, Sherlock said firmly. “Also, I am sure that I do not have to remind someone as intelligent as yourself that our visit today was just a courtesy call and that we discussed absolutely nothing whatsoever of any import.” He paused and leaned forward. _“Or do I?”_

He stared meaningfully at the bank manager who looked as if he might need my professional services any minute. The fellow was actually shaking!

“But... but... but all is well now?” he managed. His voice had suddenly gone very high.

“All is well _now”_ , Sherlock said, “but you may wish to monitor your Mr. Clooney a little more closely in future. He is as the saying goes prone to make a full-scale international drama out of a local crisis. The next time he behaves in that way – and his sort do not change their spots, in my experience - his employer might not be quite so fortunate. Remember, you must tell no-one about our visit. Good day, sir.”

He stood up and strode quickly from the room. I hurried after him.

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“A 'Major European Power'?” I laughed when we were safely on the train. “Really?”

“I detest killers whether they be of man or beast”, he said. “With the estimable Miss St. Leger's help the callous Mr. Clooney will find his life quite difficult over the next few months, and will pay a fitting price for his cruel and spiteful actions. But then that is as it should be.”

I chuckled again as our suburban train chuffed its way slowly back to Liverpool Street.

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Postscriptum: Sherlock later told me that he did indeed follow through against the obnoxious Mr. Clooney, who lost his position at the bank some two months later. The fellow tried to become a criminal but failed at that as he had done at being a human being, and his was one of rather too many bodies dragged out of the Thames later that same year. Not a loss by any definition of the word.

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	13. Case 209: The Adventure Of The Houseboys ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. Mr. Sweyn Godfreyson asks Sherlock to look into a contested inheritance that two of his 'boys' have come into. But getting at the truth proves surprisingly difficult – just what are people hiding?

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Many of my investigations concerned inheritances, in which many expectations that had built up over a period of years were either not met or were greatly exceeded. It is amusing that so many people contrive to hoard a life of grievances and annoyances which they then used their last will and testament to gain revenge on those who had displeased them in some way, knowing that they themselves would be safely the other side of the pearly gates when that happened. Few proved as difficult to sort out as the strange matter of the House Inheritance, which we became involved in as it concerned two gentlemen very dear to us both.

Miss Horatia House had been a recluse who had lived alone for most of her adult life, shunning the company of family and friends alike. She had been adequately if not comfortably well off through most of her life, but the deaths of all three of her brothers in recent years had meant that the bulk of the family wealth had come to her – along with, inevitably, the sudden and unwelcome attentions of a whole host of relatives who had mysteriously remembered her existence just as she had become wealthy. 

I blame John for my coming out with such a cynical remark. I will have to make him pay for it later!

The terms of the estate were that it could not pass to the next generation until the previous one had fully expired, and Miss House showed no inclination so to do. In normal circumstances this may have led to the sort of 'accident' which appeared a little too often in my adventures for mathematical probability theory, but this lady kept a shotgun and was not afraid to use it on unwelcome guests – _and that included unwelcome relatives!_

Miss House also had certain attitudes towards servants, which were to prove relevant to what happened in this case. She had hitherto used Mr. Trent's excellent servants' agency but had never employed anyone for more than three months; he had told me that she had a reputation for being demanding but fair. However that had changed when she had encountered two friends of ours, the Selkirk twins Balin and Balan. They were working as porters on the Great Eastern Railway at the time and she chanced to meet them both on one of her journeys. Much to my surprise they agreed to quit their jobs – they were only thirty-seven at the time – and to move into her house in order to become her full-time servants.

By this point in the proceedings Miss House had known that she was dying as her doctor had diagnosed her with a fatal illness, and had told her that she had at most a year left. However. with the advent of her new servants she had seemed to have undergone a complete character transformation. Previously she had hardly ever left the house – her trip out to Shenfield during which she met the twins had been for a funeral – but in her last year she had undertaken trips to London, Scotland and Devonshire as well as abroad, although still refusing to see any of her relatives (and still wielding that shotgun!). They had accepted this, but when she had died recently and left ten per cent of her estate to each twin.... one can imagine the reaction from the sixteen assorted relatives each of whom only got five per cent.

I stared curiously at Sweyn after he had explained all this to me. 

“I shall start with the obvious question”, I said. “Why did you not have the 'boys' here when I called?”

“They do not wish to talk about it”, he admitted, scratching his stubbled beard and smiling at Lloyd as he came across to join us. “Which given what they do – did – in this house is troubling indeed!”

I had maybe applied a certain amount of pressure to the Great Eastern Railway in order to get the twins their old jobs back, as I knew that they had quite enjoyed them. I also knew that they had tentative plans to move to the country some time soon, so even given their 'second jobs' here and their recent windfalls, they still needed the money. Unusually Sweyn had allowed them to live in one of the small rooms at their local molly-house, which was his way of helping them as it saved them finding new rooms. They also saw what was left of my cousin Luke from time to time – when dear Benji was not reducing him to his now normal wrecked state!

“It cannot be anything too bad”, Lloyd said, snuggling into his huge lover and earning himself an eye-roll in the process. “I know that they need the money; they are nearly forty now so they have little time left in the business, although the twin thing helps.”

“I am thirty-five”, Sweyn said pointedly.

“Yes. And?”

The Viking squeezed the smaller man hard but briefly, eliciting a pained squeak.

“Bad boy!” he said reprovingly. “You know what happens when you sass the big man! The twins have their pension, Sherlock, but they could do with this money and they cannot afford a lawyer against these greedy relatives, who I am sure will pool their resources to fight them. The want to go to the Lakes and start a bed and breakfast or small hotel there. Can you help, do you think?”

_(State-funded old-age pensions lay in the next century, but one of the conditions of working at first my stepbrother's and now Sweyn's molly-houses was that a quarter of all moneys made was set aside as a pension, which was payable either when a fellow reached the age of fifty or, if the worst happened, to their dependents sooner. It also helped ensure the loyalty of men to the place as any bad behaviour would immediately forfeit their savings, which would then be distributed among all the other men. Although that hardly ever happened)._

“On a practical side I can supply them with a lawyer to secure their inheritance”, I said. “But that will require information, and we will need to know just why a lady who was so set in her ways suddenly changed when the twins came into her life. Thankfully she was as you say almost eighty, so it cannot be anything like that.”

Although a small voice at the back of my head was whispering, _are you sure?_ I blamed John for that too.

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I decided to try one or two of the relatives first, so once John had finished treating a couple of the 'boys' for the usual minor injuries we went off to see Mrs. Philippa Helston, a niece of the late Miss House. She was was about fifty-five years of age and, most unfortunately, had seemingly taken a bath in lilac water as her mere presence at once brought on my allergy. Worse, despite her husband being right there in the room with her she was simpering at me! Never mind John rolling his eyes at the horror of it all; I just wanted to cut and run. But this was for friends so I forced myself to stay.

It took some effort.

“Disgusting!” Mrs. Helston thundered, somehow managing to simper and scowl at one and the same time (impressive). “I understand that one is morally obliged to leave servants a small token of one's gratitude, but certainly not more than one leaves to family.”

“In fairness she left some four-fifths of her will to family”, I pointed out, “and only the fact that she had so many relatives meant that that sum had to be divided among so many.”

“What sum?” she sniffed. “Those horrible boys must have hidden it away somewhere; the house is mortgaged to the hilt and we were told that we would get barely five pounds† apiece when all was done! A mere pittance!”

I frowned at that. Balin and Balan Selkirk were two of the most righteous gentlemen I had ever met, and I was sure that they would never have done such a thing. Although annoyingly Sweyn's words about their needing money to go to the Lakes hung about at the back of my mind and refused to depart. As I well knew, every man had his price.

“Your aunt was obviously fond of the gentlemen”, I said, “considering that she kept them on so much longer than she had anyone else. Do you have any idea why?”

There was a definite pause before she answered.

“None!” she said firmly.

The sharp look that she shot her husband and his red face as she did so were also interesting. What was going on here?

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We had a similar experience at our second port of call, this time with a nephew called Mr. James House who lived in a small terraced house in Wanstead. He was about the same age as Mrs. Helston and he too looked decidedly shifty when it came to talking about his aunt's relationship with the twins before denying that he knew anything. I was beginning to wonder if the worst was true after all.

“I do not believe it!” John said when I suggested it to him. “I know people, and the boys would never do anything dishonourable.”

“I would like to think that you are right”, I said. “Maybe we shall see when we get to our third relative, Mr. House's brother John.”

See we did, although not what we expected. Mr. John House was a tall bluff fellow of about fifty years of age absolutely nothing like his brother. He was a sea captain by trade, which did not seem to fit in with the rest of the family. He looked sharply at us.

“I only got the letter from the boys' lawyer yesterday”, he said. “They are prepared to fight for what little there is on principle.”

“So will several other members of the family, I suppose”, I sighed.

He smiled for some reason.

“I am not as hoity-toity as most of us Houses”, he said. “No, they can keep it.”

“You think that your fellow family members will be so obliging?” I asked curiously.

He smiled and picked up a sheet of paper which he handed to me. I read it and my eyebrows shot up.

“So _that_ was where the money went!” I exclaimed. 

“The old girl went out with a bang”, he grinned. “I don't blame her; I would have done the same in her circumstances. Left us all with fond memories and little else. Good on her, I say!”

“Thank you for showing me this”, I said. “It explains rather a lot.”

He seemed to hesitate for some reason.

“Like the rest of them I was curious”, he admitted, “and knowing what the boys did on the side I approached them when they were out one day. You see sirs, my aunt had many failings as a human being but she was sharp. She knew full well that most of the family would make a fuss over her will, so she gave the boys something 'just in case'. I wasn't going to tell the rest of them what, but... I think that if you approach them and say the word 'pictures', they might share it with you.”

We both looked at him in confusion.

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_“She spent it all?”_ John asked, shocked. 

I nodded.

“High living, expensive food and holidays”, I smiled. “She knew that she did not have much time left so she decided to make the most of it. She employed Balin and Balan to help her do it. No wonder Sweyn said that they took a year out from him as well as their jobs.”

He saw my point at once.

“So that she was able to give them lots of money legally for caring for her”, he said. “The relatives cannot contest that as it is a term of employment.”

“Doubtless some of them thought that the threat of dragging a molly-man through the courts might make them yield at least their final inheritance”, I said, frowning, “but now they know that said molly-men have some powerful friends, I rather think that they will see sense. Although I am intrigued as to those 'pictures'. I think that we will detour via their rooms and talk to them.”

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The twins were as I said currently staying at a room in the molly-house where they worked. They greeted us warily, I thought, although they were pleased to hear that their court troubles were seemingly over.

“There is one thing that does intrigue me, though”, I said. “I know that you are both deeply honourable men and would never have acted ill, yet I was asked to put a word to you voth. 'Pictures'.”

The two men blushed deeply, then Balan detached himself from his twin and went over to the table where he pulled a large envelope out of the drawer. Blushing even more, he handed it to me and I opened it. Then I stared.

And stared.

And stared.

And stared some more.

“What _are_ you doing with that feather-duster?” John asked at last.

I shook my head at him. Really, he was going with _that?_

“More importantly, what are you doing with that feather-duster _while naked?”_ I asked.

“That's Lin”, said Balan (oddly enough I had not been drawn to the freckles in the picture!). “Dear Horatia knew that she was going to die and she wanted to make her last year as much fun as possible. When she employed us.....”

He stopped, clearly too embarrassed to continue. His twin took up the tale.

“She said that we would be doing everything”, Balin said. “She was tired of other people, and she wanted someone that she could enjoy having around. Naked.”

“There was nothing improper”, Balan said hastily. “She paid us wonderfully well – better even than at the house. And she had such a great year – Paris, Edinburgh, the English Riviera – she did the lot. She hired a private beach near Brixham then just sat watching us play in the surf. It was.... kind of sad, yet she was happy.”

“She knew I had a camera”, Balin said, “so she insisted on photographs of us around the house. It was a last resort see; if the family tried to stop us getting any money then they could be told about the pictures. One of them managed to figure it out but as he didn't like the rest of them that was all right.”

“Well, I suppose she went with a smile on her face”, I smiled.

For some reason that made both the men blush even more.

“What?” John asked.

“She knew that her heart would be what gave out in the end”, Balin said sadly. “But every night when we went to bed there she insisted on it; us undressing each other by the fire in front of her. That last night.... it was just too much.”

 _With a smile on her face indeed!_ I thought.

“As I knew you would have, you behaved most honourably in this”, I said. “I shall make sure that your lawyer gets your remaining moneys to you as soon as possible, gentlemen.”

They both smiled at me in thanks.

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“A happy ending all round”, John smiled as we were driven back to Baker Street. “Except possibly for the grasping relatives, who were lucky that those photographs did not come out.”

“Indeed”, I said abstractedly. “I wonder if I might borrow their camera and take pictures of you naked around our rooms.”

His breathing had suddenly accelerated. 

“But then why bother”, I said, “when I can have the real thing looked totally wrecked after fucking three straight orgasms out of him.”

He looked like he might be about to follow the late Miss House out of this world. But not just yet. I had even more plans for his luscious body......

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_Notes:_   
_† About £575 ($700) at 2020 prices._

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	14. Case 210: The Adventure Of The Burnt Book ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. Sherlock's reputation as someone who treats the so-called 'lower orders' fairly (i.e. as human beings) leads an antique-shop owner to approach him for help. His landlord has just massively raised his rent, seemingly because he refused to sell him a bookcase. The great detective enters the world of old things (he pointedly does not make any jokes about nearby gentlemen who may be quite close to a certain birthday) and uncovers a fiery truth.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

221B Baker Street lay, unsurprisingly, in the Regent's Park area of London; indeed we could just see the western edge of the Park from our window. That great green lung lay to the east of us, while to the north lay St. John's Wood, scene of several of our adventures. Ours and the Wood were regarded as some of the better areas of the metropolis, Marylebone to the south was deemed 'average' while Lisson Grove to the west was working-class. Considering how close it was, it was perhaps surprising that we rarely went to this latter area (although it was not really on the way to anywhere), and our only past links with it had been the crossing-sweeper Mr. Thomas More whom we had helped some years back and whose children had now done well enough for the family to ‘move up in the world’ to Marylebone, and also the Tallands over the LeStrade Interview case shortly before the Early Hiatus. I might add here that young James Talland had not improved and.had left the family home soon after the events of that case, later being one of rather too many people to overestimate his criminal abilities and to end up being fished out of the Thames.

On this particularly sharp January day another of the Grove’s denizens came to us. Unfortunately I was minus my resident note-taker that morning as what was left of John was still in his bedroom, dead to the world after we had come home from a particularly painful social event for his surgery. I mostly avoided these but this had been an important one – some anniversary of the place opening, I think – so I had gone along for the man I loved. Dreadful food, horrible people, and a band that was striving to remain forever out of tune! I could only thank the foresight that we had arranged for Mrs. Rockland to provide us with supper on our return, and that I had sent out to Branksome's for some of their Special Chocolate Fingers that I knew John really enjoyed when he was feeling down. 

He was not feeling down just now!

Mr. Elliot Smith was, according to his card, the owner of an antiques shop in the Grove. Neither John nor I was really in to that sort of thing – living in rooms made one disinclined to amass clutter, which I felt was in itself a good thing – but I decided that when we did find a place of our own then it would have some old things in it. Apart from the old fellow locked safely away in his bedroom who would not be awake any time soon!

Mr. Smith was a short and generally unprepossessing fellow in his late thirties, and I was sure that as a London trader he had to be in to some sort of sharp practice or he would not have survived for long out there. But he came across as honest enough and I always tried to help people if I could. And if they deserved it.

“I don't know if you can help me sir”, my visitor said, “but it's about my rent.”

“What about your rent?” I asked.

“The landlady of the block used to be a Mrs. Sutherland”, he said. “But she died and her widower took over; he's our local sergeant. He's jacked my rent up to double what it was. Just mine, no-one else's.”

I tried not to wince at that name. Sergeant Jack Sutherland was someone who had come to attention of both Gregson and LeStrade, and not as some snarky friend of mine had quipped because he was another master cake-detector (my love really was getting worse!). No, this villain in a policeman's uniform had come close to being deservedly demoted after it had emerged that certain shop-owners who did not share his Liberal views had found the local constabulary less than willing to help after they had been robbed. Gregson had told me that there was also a suspicion that his fellow policeman had leaked details of the shops to his criminal associates, but unluckily it had not been able to be proven so he had survived. It had happened only days after my 'return to life' otherwise I might well have taken more of an interest – but then I had had rather more pressing things to, ahem, press.

Now, however, I had the time. And when he recovered, I would also have John to assist me – once he could walk again!

“Why is Sergeant Sutherland so against you?” I asked. “The politics thing?”

He scratched his thinning pate.

“That's what's so odd, sir”, he said. “If anything I'm more Liberal than him in my politics, not that I usually vote. I think it was because I refused to sell him a set of books that he wanted.”

“You sell books?” I asked, surprised.

“Not as such sir”, he said, “but I keep a few for display on the bookshelves I sell. It makes the things look more homely, and people can choose whether to buy them or not. He said that one of the books, on butterflies I think, was one he wanted as his late wife had been into insects. I would've thought that odd but I've seen much stranger in my time.”

I had no doubt that as a London shopkeeper, he surely had.

"Why did you not sell him the item?" I asked, thinking that most men in his position would have done if only to 'keep in' with their landlord."

“I would've done, sir”, he went on, “but he just _demanded_ I give him the lot for a farthing so I said no. That was when he jacked up my rent.”

I thought for a moment.

“When did he marry your former landlady?" I asked.

“Her last husband died of the winter flu, sir”, he said. “I think he knew her some way though no idea how – and he got her money when she died. He told me flat out that now she was gone he didn't have to be fair to what were his tenants now, but as I said it's only my rent that's gone sky-high.”

“This sounds most intriguing”, I said, taking a card and writing something on it. “First things first; we cannot have your business suffering while I investigate this matter. You should go to that address and ask for a Mr. Pelligrew†; he is a lawyer for whose father I once did a not inconsiderable favour and he will be able to deter Mr. Sutherland from so greatly increasing your rent. Then you must go home and send those books to me. Are they safely locked away?”

He smiled slyly.

“I'd a feeling Mr. Sutherland might try something with me out of the shop”, he said, “'specially as he's got a key. So I took them round to my brother's for safe-keeping. But why's he so keen on a book about insects, sir?”

“I have an idea about that”, I said, “but I would need to take those books to a specialist to have it confirmed. All of them if you please, not just the insects one. If you can get them to me as soon as possible I will see if I am right, then we can go from there.”

“Thank you, sir.”

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I did not like certain aspects of this case, so once my visitor was gone I sent to the ineffable Miss St. Leger for certain information which might make Sergeant Sutherland's existence somewhat precarious. She responded as quickly as I had hoped – poor John was still dead to the world – and I was able to set certain wheels in motion. Like Miss St. Leger I too found that the wheels of government and administration could grind much faster than normal if they feared she or I might pursue other matters should we be kept waiting. It was sad I suppose, but it was the way of the world and that it likely always would be.

I also had to fit in a visit to Mother – always an ordeal – but fortunately Mycroft had gone round to whine about something as per usual so it was he who got to enjoy the delights of the story inspired by Benji's terrible Sad Face which my mother had somehow got to learn about, and how he used it to work his way through a whole metropolis. 'Sex And The Pity' indeed!

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Once I had ceased celebrating my unpleasant elder brother’s sufferings – it was good that I was not the sort of person to smirk over such a thing – I had the other part of the case to pursue, as Mr. Smith had got his books to me most promptly. I took them round to Mr. Gough, a book-seller who I knew dealt in the rare and the valuable in his field. John was up by this time but his face when I suggested the horror of the stairs – I was hard put not to laugh. Fortunately I only did so once I was safely in the cab and heading down to Marylebone.

Mr. Gough looked through the five books that I had brought and his eyebrows shot up rapidly towards his gleaming pate. That worried me at once; he was normally among the most impassive of fellows.

“Something odd?” I asked.

“This could make you a very rich man”, he said. _“Or a very dead one if you are not careful!”_

“Why?” I asked.

He picked up a small, tattered red book. Not the one on insects, I noted.

“The other four are rubbish”, he said, “but this one is worth its weight in gold, if not the weight of the bookshelf it graces.”

“It is only a poetry book, is it not?” I asked.

He smiled knowingly.

“A book of poetry written by one of the late Lord Byron's friends, a Mr. Edward Grosvenor”, he said. “He wrote what most people at the time thought only passable poetry, and it was only after his death that someone noticed that he had inserted coded messages into his work describing what the great and the good of his day said about each other in private. As I am sure you can imagine, there are many descendants of those people in powerful positions who would be less than happy to have their ancestors shown in such a poor light.”

I could see his point. John had once told me how grateful he was that humans could not read minds – he had stared at me rather oddly for some reason at the time – because otherwise social interactions would have been rendered impossible.

“His publishers had by that time printed a dozen sets of his work each with five volumes”, Mr. Gough continued. “Eleven of the sets were recovered and destroyed but the twelfth had seemingly been split up. I feared that this might happen.”

“If it only one book, is it still dangerous?” I asked. He nodded.

“What you have here is The Burnt Book”, he said. “This basically contains the key to translating, or ‘burning’ as some in the trade call it, the code. I would hazard that someone has come into possession of some or all of the other four, and has realized that they are useless without this one. I had heard rumours that some of them had resurfaced but I fervently hoped that they were just that, rumours.”

I took a deep breath.

“A man would kill for this”, I said slowly. He nodded.

“A man with all five books would be set for life”, he said. “I am sure that he would take great care to inform his blackmail victims that in the event of anything happening to him then all the information would be released anyway; should he have failed so to do he would have been lucky to have seen his next sunset. Do you know the gentleman?”

“I doubt that he is a gentleman”, I said, “and I am very much afraid that he has already killed to get his hands on one or more of the other books in the set. Thank you, sir.”

I tipped him – very heavily – and left.

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It was arguably wrong of me to do what I did next, but these books would remain a danger as long as they were out there. So I had my friend Miss Gorringe break into Sergeant Sutherland's rooms and steal the other four books(they were of course in a safe, but that barely hindered her), substituting them with ones that looked similar. The villain would hopefully be too busy to look at them in the next few days after which he would have more than enough other problems to deal with.

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A few days later a much happier-looking Mr. Smith came to Baker Street. 

“Sergeant Sutherland has been arrested!” he said. “They dug up poor Mrs. Sutherland and found that he had poisoned her. But why?”

“You chanced to come into possession of a most dangerous book”, I said, gesturing to where the menace lay on the table. “Not the insect one which did not interest your landlord at all, but the one with the bad poetry.”

“The sergeant liked bad poetry?” he said, clearly confused.

“Few people do”, I said. “But he had heard that there was a set of books out there which contained some explosive revelations about the great and the good from not that long ago, many of whose descendants are today's great and good. He realized that to possess all five would enable him to blackmail many people, setting himself up for life.”

“He managed to obtain three of the books easily enough, and found the fourth in the possession of the widow Mrs. Clark. He had to marry her to get that and soon after he poisoned her; fortunately for him she had been ill at their marriage so he was not suspected, plus of course few people would suspect a policeman. He did not then know that she had actually had two of the books and had given the second one to you when you mentioned getting some old books for display purposes, and when he found that out he tried to double your rent.”

“Poor woman”, he sighed. “Even if she landed me in it!”

“If the rent rises had not forced you out I am sure that the sergeant would have resorted to a second murder”, I said. “You see, although the books form a quintet, only yours has the code that is needed to understand the first four. They were useless to the sergeant without your book.”

The tradesman looked warily at the book, finally understanding.

“That thing is dangerous!” he said fearfully.

“Very”, I said. “I have translated the various things in it; I have also placed the information about their ancestors in several safe places, and let the people affected know that any attempt to get at even one of them will lead to the whole lot being published.”

He smiled slightly at that.

“Might make them behave a bit better for a while”, he said hopefully.

“I have destroyed the other four books”, I said, rising to my feet, “and this last piece of Mr. Grosvenor's work must sadly perish. Much as burning a book is a horrible thing, in this instance it must be done.”

I threw the thing on the fire and we both watched as it disappeared in the flames.

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Postscriptum: Sergeant Sutherland paid a fitting price for his crimes at the end of a length of rope, and despite the efforts of his own family my friend Mr. Pelligrew was able to speed the settling of his estate among his late wife's relatives. Her nephew Mr. Lee Windsor inherited the bulk of the estate and the lawyer explained as discretely as possible what had happened, whereon Mr. Windsor very generously said that Mr. Smith should be given the ownership of his shop for helping to uncover his aunt's murder. And contrary to what the cynic in me had expected, many of the 'great and good' did suddenly start behaving rather better for no apparent reason. 

John even remarked on it from those social pages that he never reads!

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_Notes:_   
_† Son of the gentleman of the same name who Sherlock had met at Bargate and who had introduced the Hawke Inheritance case to him back in 'Eighty-Three. The elder Mr. Pelligrew had married in 1870 but it had not worked out, and in 'Seventy-Four, the year after his wife had left him, he had fathered an illegitimate son. The woman in question had abandoned the boy but the lawyer had accepted and raised him as his own, and Sherlock had helped the younger Edward become established as a lawyer with his having just passed his final examinations._

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	15. Case 211: The Adventure Of The Kesteven Killer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. Another case in rural Lincolnshire, this time the Part of Kesteven. Sherlock gives John an unusual history lesson and there is a killer who cannot possibly be brought to trial, yet justice is still done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the case of Sir James Saunders.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It was a late spring day in the city, and I was feeling pleasantly languid as I lounged in our main room at 221B. I had just returned from depositing a cheque from my publisher's so even my bank manager was happy (if briefly). Sherlock had just told me that he had a new 'half-niece' as Lord Harry Hawke's wife had given birth to a daughter, to be named Diana after a friend of her mother. And there would be chocolate trifle for dessert that evening, which was wonderful.

My happy thoughts were interrupted by the bell that indicated a visitor had arrived. It was only one bell so it was not someone that we knew (it was highly unlikely to be either Gregson or LeStrade as it was not a baking day) – and Sherlock who was reading near the buzzer pressed to have the person sent up. I was surprised a few moments later to hear what sounded like LeStrade's heavy tread on our stairs but not as surprised when a familiar figure came through the door. 

Then he stood up. It was Mr. Vulcan Wild, better known to us as 'the Hammersmith Wonder'.

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The massive blacksmith looked decidedly ill-at-ease in smart clothes and bowed deeply to us.

“Sirs”, he rumbled.

“Take a seat my friend”, Sherlock smiled, smirking as I moved round to not hide behind the table. “It has been six years so it is a pleasure to see you again. Your business and Mr. De'Ath prosper I take it?”

The behemoth seated himself carefully on the couch which fortunately held his muscular bulk. Although I was sure that I detected a slight creak.

“Jamie is fine”, he said smiling softly at the mention of his lover's name. “I'm here today because he.... well, he made me.”

I wondered how Mr. Mortimer James De'Ath who was the best part of two feet shorter than and less than half the sheer bulk of the man before us could 'make' him do anything. But I supposed that some men would do anything for love....

It really was damnably unfair of 'someone' to choose that moment to send me a knowing look!

“It's about my elder brother Heffie”, our visitor said. “Hephaestus; our mother had a thing for old names. He's a smith too, back in Lincolnshire, and he wrote me last week that he was worried about one of his customers.”

“You are from that part of the world then?” Sherlock asked. The smith smiled.

“Country boys who come to London get teased if they keep their old tongue, sir”, he said. “I lost it soon enough.”

I found it hard to imagine anyone being dumb enough to try to tease the man-mountain in front of us. It would surely have happened very, very briefly, and those stupid enough to have done it were likely buried somewhere out the back of this behemoth's smithy!

“Heffie works all the estates round Bourne where his smithy is”, our visitor said. “One of them is called 'Two Saints', the house of a fine old gentleman by name of Sir James Saunders. I don't know him of course but Heffie said he's a good sort and always pays on time, unlike so many.”

_(Sir James Saunders, as anyone of that time would have known, was a lot more than 'a fine old gentleman'. He had been one of Her Majesty's chief gentleman attending and had retired to his house in the country the year before due to his declining health. I only happened to know that because I may on the odd occasion have happened to take a quick glance at the society pages once in a while if I had nothing better with which to occupy my time. And 'someone' could stop with the smirking _right now!).__

__“Heffie said in his last letter that someone was threatening to kill Sir James's old fox-hunter”, the smith said, frowning. “Horse called Gildardus, a bay beauty but like his owner getting on a bit. Sir James does not ride him to hounds any more but one of the lads at the stables told Heffie that there had been two threatening letters saying that they would 'get' the horse.”_ _

__“Why target a poor old horse?” I wondered. “Come to that, why say that you are going to do it beforehand? Surely the animal is kept in the stables so breaking into it would be fairly easy?”_ _

__Our visitor scratched his head._ _

__“I do not like it, sirs”, he said. “Heffie is sure the family is on it somehow, a right horrible bunch he calls them. He knew of your helping me that time and wrote asking if I would put it to you gentlemen. I thought it a waste of your time but Jamie.... well, he insisted.”_ _

__Again the slight smile at his lover's name. I was glad that he was so very happy._ _

__“Mr. De'Ath was quite correct in his assumption”, Sherlock said. “We shall take this case, and we shall be sure to keep you informed of any developments.”_ _

____

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“If only to stop him coming round and asking for them!” Sherlock added once the behemoth had departed. “We cannot have an English doctor quivering behind the table!”

“I did not 'quiver'!” I protested. “I was merely... adjusting my chair.”

“You are so full of it!” he grinned. “But once I return from sending my telegram I shall remedy that.”

“How?” I asked, still not pouting.

“By filling you with something else!” he grinned. “Be ready!”

Reader, I was.

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There was a further development later that same day in the situation surrounding Sherlock's brother Carlyon and his new steward Mr. Daniel Hunter. When the latter had come to London Sherlock's formidable (as in terrifying) mother had been away visiting a friend in the Far North of Scotland and had since returned. She had assessed the situation and decided that she was perfectly happy with the arrangement, much (Sherlock told me) to the evident displeasure of his brothers Mycroft and Torver. The latter had been particularly outspoken on the matter and in his mother's presence, but would be out of hospital in a few days once his arm had healed. And his leg. And his shoulder. He was lucky; the so-called journalist who had published the story had fared even worse especially considering that Lady Holmes had only been Irked (a Level Two).

I did suggest that Sherlock send his brother a 'get well slowly if at all' card, but he just shook his head at me for some reason. How odd.

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The village of Little Bytham outside which 'Two Saints' lay was on the East Coast route to Scotland but Sherlock had decided to first call in on our giant client's brother in the town of Bourne. We set out the following day as I was making good progress with my writings and Sherlock had no cases of import that demanded his presence in the capital. 

After our previous Lincolnshire cases I was fully expecting Kesteven, the south-western quarter of that fair county, to be as flat as the adjoining Part of Holland where we had met the handsome yet murderous Mr. Harry Strange, and was pleasantly surprised that although far from hilly the terrain seemed to occasionally remember that it could exist in all three dimensions. Bourne itself was a pleasant little town and our Goliath of a client had recommended us to stay at the Bull & Swan Inn, which his brother had told him was a decent enough place. Mr. Hephaestus Wild would attend us there the evening of our arrival if we sent a message round to his smithy, which we did.

I had, if truth be told, been somewhat dreading having to meet this second Wild man thinking that he might be built along the same lines as the 'Hammersmith Wonder'. In fact he was almost disappointingly normal, similar in size and build to Sherlock but with squarer facial features and his brother's dark hazel eyes. He was surprisingly mannerly for someone who worked in so rough a profession, although I supposed that having to be around all that nobility may have caused that.

“I am right glad that Vul is doing well for himself”, the smith smiled. “Our father, I am sorry to say, is extremely narrow-minded when it comes to such things and our mother is too weak to oppose him. That was why Vul went to London; I myself only see her nowadays when he is elsewhere.”

“Families can be difficult things”, Sherlock sympathized (he would definitely know about that!). “You told your brother about a problem that you were having concerning Sir James Saunders?”

The smith nodded.

“Sir James is a big noise in these parts”, he said, “despite his being all but retired now. He is a good man though, unlike some as I could mention. He is very attached to Gildardus, his old fox-hunter. It really upset him when he was told that he should no longer ride him to hounds.”

“I would wager that he tried anyway?” Sherlock smiled. The smith nodded.

“No-one else is allowed to ride the beast”, he said, “but I had to re-shoe him and could see that he had been out. He lives in small annex attached to the main stables and has a field to go out in when he wants. He is too old to be ridden any more although there is a good few years left in him yet. Still, it was good of Sir James to keep him. Not many would have, round here.”

“Why does he not live with the rest of the horses?” I asked. 

The smith grinned.

“His storm thing”, he said. “Most animals cower inside when the thunder and lightning start; he kicks his door open and goes out for a mad gallop. Yet when it comes to shoeing him he is as docile as a lamb.”

“There are many worse failings than a love of bad weather”, Sherlock smiled. “Your brother said that you suspected someone in the family of being behind these threats against the animal?” 

The smith's face darkened.

“That lot!” he said, his voice suddenly full of vitriol. “I would not trust them to tell me the time of day!”

“Please tell us about them”, Sherlock said. “Slowly if you do not mind; when people speak too fast the doctor's dreadful scrawl becomes like a set of Egyptian hieroglyphs!”

I scowled at him for that. And the smith did not need to laugh either!

“It is really just the three of them”, he said. “Sir James's eldest, Lord Corby, is about forty years of age, and if his abilities matched his sheer bloody arrogance then the estate would be set fair. Named for his father but folks round here call him Jack, among other things! It was lucky in a way that he got left in charge of things while his father was in hospital last winter; from what I heard he made a right pig's ear of it! Now Sir James is having second thoughts about his inheriting it all, and rightly so. Jack is married with two teenage boys but he and his missus they.... well, they are in the same house but not the same bed or so I heard. She has likely been in a few other beds as well; their second boy Billy looks nothing like either of them.”

 _Like Inspector Macdonald and his late wife_ , I thought.

“Then there is Jack's sister Lady Emily”, the smith continued. “Lot of bad blood there between her and her father. Sir James was all set to leave her a decent sum but she went and ran off with some fellow up from London and spent two years with him before he ditched her. We were all amazed that it had lasted two years; she is a right bossy old cow!”

I was gaining the impression that the smith was not overly enamoured of the people over at 'Two Saints'.

“Last and least there is the youngest sprog, Lord Jeremy”, the smith said. “Sly, that's the word that best describes him. All care and attention to his dear old dad when he is this side of Stamford but I hear he behaves very differently when he gets to Birmingham.”

“Birmingham?” Sherlock asked. “Why all the way there?”

“Sir James has invested in a few factories in and around the town”, the smith explained.

Sherlock nodded.

 _“Most_ interesting”, he said. 

He looked hard at the smith who fidgeted for some reason. I knew that look, and waited. Sure enough it did not take long for the fellow to break under that azure focus.

“The only other person who might be involved is the stable-boy”, he said. “Douglas, but everyone calls him Digger because he is always so dirty.”

“Why would the stable-boy be involved?” I asked.

“He was the one who found the notes in the horse's stable”, the smith explained. “I thought that he might be working with someone else; he is very credulous. And he went a funny colour when I mentioned the whole thing to him one time.”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“The obvious question”, he said at last, “is _cui bono?_ Who would benefit from the death.”

“Of a horse?” I asked, surprised. 

He shook his head.

“Of Sir James”, he said, looking hard at the smith. _“That_ was why you called us in, was it not sir? This is more than a threat made against an unknowing equine. Someone is hoping to get at your noble client through his attachment to that horse.”

The smith reddened but nodded.

“Sir James is decent for a toff”, he said. “We could do a lot worse, especially when I look at his offspring. As I said, he is very attached to his horse, and with his family he has little else to live for in this world.”

Sherlock sighed heavily.

“It looks as if I shall have to resort to the offices of my annoying brother Randall”, he said. “I have to know the contents of Sir James's will.”

“I can tell you that sir”, the smith said. 

We both looked at him in astonishment.

“How?” I asked, beating Sherlock to the obvious question. 

“Sir James is clever”, the smith grinned. “He drew up a new will last year and had the mayor and his wife come to the Hall to witness it. They got to read it of course and she.... well, she can talk the hind leg off a donkey! Everyone knew within days.”

“One would assume that your nobleman, knowing the area as well as he did, must have foreseen that”, Sherlock smiled. “What does the will say?”

“The estate and money nearly all goes to Mr. Jack”, the smith said. “His other children each get an income from ten per cent of the estate, so if Mr. Jack messes up they might find themselves with ten per cent of nothing! Then there were the usual gifts to the staff members, more to those who had been there the longest.”

“Including this 'Digger'?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes”, the smith said, “not not much as he is fairly new there. Sir James is a generous old soul all told and even gave to those in the town who had served him over the years. I got named in it would you believe! You know what some people are like, sirs.”

_(It was, regrettably, normal practice that when most rich people died then any debts owing to local businessmen effectively died with them, as it was often not worth pursuing the outstanding moneys through the courts. From what our host had said about the younger members of the family that had likely been all too wise a precaution of Sir James's part, and a clever way to clear any debts for when he did pass)._

Sherlock seemed lost in thought for some time. Then he smiled.

“The family is not an old one I believe?” he said. I looked at him in surprise.

“They have been around a while but not as nobs”, the smith said, clearly also surprised at the question. “My late grandfather used to tell me about the Wellses who had the place in his time. I think they lost all their money – something to do with somewhere abroad - and had to sell up to Sir James's father. He was a right tartar and all!”

“Is there a _Lady_ Saunders?” Sherlock asked.

“Two!” the smith grinned. “The first one was a local girl who he took up with when he was plain Mr. Saunders of Bourne; that would have been a couple of years before his father bought the house, I think. His father put a stop to that pretty damn quick and he married the current one, Lady Patricia. She came from up North somewhere, a posh family but no money. I did not bother with her because she hardly ever connects with reality. She is away somewhere on the Lancashire coast at some commune or other, mentally somewhere 'twixt there and Jupiter!”

“She was not mentioned in the will?” I asked, surprised.

“She had a large sum from an aunt or great-aunt”, the smith said. “That was hers as of right; Sir James could not get at it, not that he would have tried. But she only gets to draw the interest from it and when she dies the capital all goes to charity. I remember that the aunt or whatever came down one time, looked at the rest of her family and made a very wise decision!”

“Regretfully I shall still have to call in the offices of Randall”, Sherlock sighed. “Tomorrow we shall pay a call on the lady mayoress. After that, we should be done.”

We both stared at him in surprise.

“You know who is behind those threats?” I asked.

“It does seem fairly obvious”, he said airily. “A few more checks to be sure and we shall be able to bring things to a conclusion, hopefully without anyone meeting an untimely end.”

In that hope he was however to be disappointed.

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The following day we set out to see if we could obtain an appointment with the mayor's wife, for whatever reason Sherlock wanted to talk to her about. We were walking down the High Street when I saw something in a shop-window that made me chuckle.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked. 

We were outside a dress-hire shop which had a display in the front window of some Ancient Roman costumes. 

“Remember the Arnsworth Castle case?” I asked, not adding that that had been seven years back and the other side of the dreadful Hiatus. “The dreadful Mrs. Huffington-Brand and all those theatrical costumes that she detested, but one of which held the wealth that she so badly sought?”

“Yes?” he said, although he looked confused. “What of it?”

I pointed to the Roman display.

“That is like one of the costumes that we found there”, I said, pointing to the dress made out of leather straps. “It just reminded me.”

 _“Pteruges”_ , he said. 

“Pardon?”

“That is the name for it”, he said. “Some Roman warriors would have emblems from great battles engraved into each strip. Mr. Falcone, whom we assisted over the 'death' of Cardinal Tosca, he has one.”

“Oh.”

Too late. He looked at me and a knowing smile spread across his features.

“That sort of thing excites you”, he said in the sort of voice that no English doctor should ever be subjected to unawares in a Lincolnshire high street. I took a deep breath and tried to regain what little remained of my composure. Very little.

“We are out in public!” I hissed. 

“I am sure that Mr. Falcone can lend me his”, he grinned. “Or I can have one made especially. I can picture it now; the brave gladiator Sherlockus returning after his latest victory to claim his reward from his fellow-fighter Ionus. A very _handsome_ reward!”

If I had got any redder (and Lord alone knows how I managed even that when most of my blood was heading south at record speed!) I was sure that I would have run the risk of exploding. Fortunately he walked on from the shop, and once I could breathe and had made a few 'adjustments' to myself I was able to follow him. The case would distract him and he would forget all about this.

All right, no need to say it. I really _was_ that stupid!

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Mrs. Gertrude Shilling was sixty if she was a day with badly-dyed hair that, I assumed, was not actually meant to have been virulently purple. That of course did not stop her from simpering at Sherlock. Thankfully his questions to her were few and we were soon on our way. 

“What did you mean when you asked her about the will?” I asked as we left the town behind us and headed west, presumably to visit Sir James Saunders. “Did you think that she was lying when she told everyone about it?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“I think rather that what she said and what people _thought_ that she said might have been two slightly different things”, he said. “In this case, that might well mark the difference between life and death.”

And that left me more confused that ever!

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After a pleasant journey from Bourne we crossed under the Great Northern Railway's main line and entered Little Bytham. Sherlock drove to the far end of the village where he drew up outside a rather attractive church.

“St. Medard and St. Gildard”, he said, looking at the sign. “The only church dedicated to them in all England, and the latter of whom gave his name to the horse in our drama. We are meeting someone here.”

Sure enough we entered the little church to find a scruffy young fellow waiting for us. 

“Douglas”, Sherlock beamed. “So good of you to come and see us.”

The stable-boy was small and thin, and frankly looked as if a strong gust might pick him up and deposit him in the North Sea some miles east of here. 

“Sirs?” he quavered.

“I have but two questions to ask you”, Sherlock said briskly. He took out a notebook and pencil and passed them over to the boy. “You will find several names on that list. Kindly place a cross next to the person in the house for whom you have been depositing those threatening messages.”

The boy went pale, and his hand was shaking as he took the notebook and made a mark before passing it back. Sherlock's face darkened.

“Now”, he said, “we come to the crux of the matter. _When is the horse to be killed?”_

I honestly feared that the boy might pass out, and it took him some time to manage an answer.

“Tonight”, he spluttered. “He.... he heard of your being in the area, sir.”

 _'He'_ , I noted. Sherlock nodded, apparently satisfied.

“I have to be honest with you, Douglas”, he said gravely. “Your position is bad. Very, very bad. You may believe – indeed I am quite sure that you have been led to believe - that your role in this matter is a minor one. I can most heartily assure you that the courts will see things very differently. You are looking at many, many years in a gaol system that, as I am sure you are aware, is not a good place for boys of your _tender_ age.”

The boy whined in fear.

“However”, Sherlock said, “you have been wise enough to somewhat remedy matters by speaking truth to my questions, so that inclines me to offer you _some_ hope. You may still feel inclined, despite the way that they have selfishly inveigled you into their crime at no risk to themselves, to warn those planning this attack of what we have discussed here. If you do that, then no power on earth can save you from the terrible consequences. If however they remain unaware of your talking to me, then I swear on the Good Book that I will speak up for you when the time comes. Remember, either way - _I will know!”_

The boy moaned but managed a strangled 'thank you sir' before bolting from the church. I stared after him more confused than ever.

“We shall adjourn to the local tavern for a few hours”, Sherlock said. “Tonight and with luck we shall prevent a death.”

We did. And yet we did not.

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We had some time to wait as it was not far short of Midsummer's Day which meant that it did not get dark until ten o' clock. By that time we had driven had driven us to the high wall around the estate and Sherlock had of course effortlessly picked the lock of a gate in it. It was unpleasantly humid and I hoped that it was not going to rain. Of course that thought was barely in my mind when I felt the first splash on my coat. I glared upwards.

There was a large field fenced off behind what was obviously a stable block and I could see the small annex in which presumably the old fox-hunter lived. We made our way around the fence towards it but as we drew near I spotted something. A figure was making its way around towards the annex, which I thought odd considering that it was now fairly bucketing down.

“Come!” Sherlock called setting off at a run. I loped after him as best I could; I should have been fitter given all the walking that I did in my profession, but somehow he easily outpaced me.

There was a flash of lightning followed only a second later by a rumble of thunder. That meant that the storm was barely a mile away, I knew, and getting nearer. We were nearly at the annex now and could hear the excited whinnying of the horse inside. I wondered why he was not out 'enjoying' the storm as we had been told, but I soon had my answer. For as I followed Sherlock inside the building I saw a dark figure opening the stall door. 

Before we could reach them that door shattered, kicked clean off its hinges by the excited horse. The person holding it was thrown violently back and clattered into the opposite wall with a sickening crunch before falling to the ground. The horse galloped through the open door behind us kicking up his heels as he went, and then it was just ourselves, the passing storm and a figure on the floor that was clearly no longer breathing.

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It was some little time later. There was nothing I could have done for the victim; he may have evaded the stampeding horse but the syringe that I had found next to them had been driven into his body as he had been thrown. What had been enough to slowly kill a horse proved fatal in mere seconds to the far smaller human frame.

Sir James Saunders looked bewildered by our stormy advent and I silently thanked the Lord that at least we did not have to deal with his family as well. His daughter had been shocked by developments and both her brothers were upstairs consoling her.

“I do not believe it”, the nobleman asked. “What was the fellow doing out there, and in this weather?”

Sherlock sighed deeply.

“I have a long tale to tell you, sir”, he said. “I am afraid that it is not good news.”

He sipped at the coffee that had arrived (odd, I did not remember him sending for any) and began.

“Your local blacksmith Mr. Hephaestus Wild requested that I be brought in on the case of the threats made against Gildardus”, he said. “He is a most shrewd fellow for he felt, and I concurred with his opinion, that the villains involved were indirectly targeting you through your horse. I made some inquiries and quickly established that in the event of your untimely demise your eldest son would receive the bulk of your estate.”

“Jack would never do anything like that!” the nobleman said stoutly, although I caught the look of doubt in his eyes. 

“It all seemed rather strange”, Sherlock mused. “Lord Corby had neither a pressing need for money nor it seemed a character that suggested any inclination to kill. Nor did he. However, there is a body to be accounted for and as you know it is that of one of your footmen, a Mr. Cameron.”

“But why would he attack old Gilly?” the nobleman asked bewilderedly.

“I often remark”, Sherlock said, “that when one has eliminated the impossible then whatever remains, however improbable, _must_ be the truth. I decided to look at this matter in another way. I approached Mrs. Shilling and asked her about her witnessing of your will. You knew full well how local areas such as this operate and decided to put an end to speculation about who was to get what in your family by having an inveterate gossip such as her witness it, knowing that the contents would be all over the area within days.”

The nobleman blushed, and I knew that Sherlock had found him out.

“It is interesting”, Sherlock mused, “that what people _say_ and what it is _reported that they say_ can have the smallest differences, and yet those differences can be most instructive. In this case, well-intentioned as they doubtless were, your actions prompted the attacks on your horse.”

“What?” the nobleman exclaimed. “But how?”

“I asked Mrs. Shilling an important question”, Sherlock said. “It had been reported that Lord Corby was named as the chief beneficiary in your will. But that was not actually true.”

“Sir....”

“The exact wording, which was most unfortunate, was that the estate went as I said to your eldest son.”

“Jack”, the nobleman insisted. Sherlock shook his head.

I am afraid that that is not the case”, he said. “I made some inquiries and I soon learned that you had had a brief first marriage that, your father disapproving of same, had been forcibly dissolved. What neither they nor you he knew at the time was that the girl had become pregnant with your child. True, the dissolution had been obtained well before the boy's birth but that still meant that he held some claim to your estate, especially given the unfortunate wording of your will.”

Sir James's face had turned ashen.

“That wording came back upon your poor horse this dark and stormy night”, Sherlock said, “and had not the storm come when it did it might well have destroyed him. Your footman Mr. Cameron was in truth Mr. Colin Anderson. His mother had re-married, moved to Lincoln and raised him with the rest of her family, but on his attaining his majority she told him of his past. He most likely thought little of it until a chance visit to this area led him to encounter your lawyer, Mr. Foxfield. The latter was, by a most unhappy stroke of fortune, in the middle of advising you on your will and he saw an excellent chance to assist Mr. Anderson in his scheming to split any profits with him. It is my opinion that had your natural son tried to claim the estate on your passing he would have failed, but that was not his intention. Far better, he and his scheming confederate knew, to approach the family and offer to allow himself to be 'bought off'. Given how astronomical lawyers' fees are these days, it was more than likely that he would have succeeded.”

“He rightly assessed that your character was such that you would refuse such an approach, but that your son Lord Corby would be much more easily persuaded, He therefore secured a position where he could strike at you. He approached you for employment having obtained a forged birth certificate which suggested that he could not possibly have been your son and was instead the issue of your former wife's second husband. You most generously took him on as a footman, unaware that you were nurturing a viper in your bosom. He quickly realized that the horse was your weak-point and started leaving threatening messages in the stable. Earlier today I confronted your stable-boy Douglas and he admitted that the fellow had paid him to leave those messages threatening your horse.”

“However, unfortunately for this villain, the one local story to which he did not pay attention in all his scheming was that of your horse's reaction to storms such as this. When he visited the stables with a syringe to finish him off, the animal, wishing to go out and enjoy this foul weather, charged out and knocked him back violently. Justice is delivered swiftly and painfully, as the syringe of deadly poison that the villain had intended for your horse was driven into his own much smaller body. What would have brought a painful, lingering death to a huge animal is lethal in seconds to the human frame, and Mr. Anderson fittingly met the fate that he had intended for your poor horse.”

The nobleman was silent.

“Of course”, Sherlock said quietly, “none of this needs to come out.”

Sir James looked up in surprise.

“You would lie to cover this up?” he asked, sounding more than a little dubious. Sherlock smiled.

“The man's mother has passed but his step-family is still alive”, he said. “Nothing can be gained by setting the vultures of the press onto them; they had no part in his actions. It was unfortunate that your footman, having been instructed to check up on the horse, was killed in that accident, but I am sure that if you are as generous towards his step-family as I know you can be, then local interest will soon wane.”

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There is little more to be said. Sir James thanked us heartily for all our efforts on his behalf and promised to do as Sherlock had asked. He lived on for a further four years oddly (although perhaps fittingly) dying just ten days after his horse passed to that great stables in the sky where doubtless they hunt together as of old. With the permission of the dead man's step-family and Lord Corby's eldest son Lord Peter (who inherited the title because his father had predeceased his grandfather by some eight months) I can now publish this story.

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	16. Interlude: Little Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. A tiny case-let that shows why Sherlock was so well-regarded by so many.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Before returning to London we visited Mr. Hephaestus Wild in his smithy in Bourne to let him know how things had turned out with his case. He was away on another estate at the time but his deputy, a slender young flaxen-haired fellow called Peterkin, assured us that he would be back very soon.

“That misery Lord Remington never keeps him a second longer than necessary, in case he charges extra", he smiled. “He only went out there to shoe a couple of horses; His Lordship's usual smith must be down with something or other.”

We thanked him for his information and I was about to lead the way out when Sherlock hesitated for some reason.

“Was there something that you yourself wished to ask us?” he said.

 _How did he do that?_ The young fellow blushed fiercely, and it was not just the heat of the place.

“It's just....” he began then stopped. “You see, my master is very good to the local people but some of them, they take advantage. I do his books for him and the amount people owe him.... it's staggering! I just wondered if you could do anything, sir?”

“Mr. Wild is a friend of a friend of ours”, Sherlock said firmly, “as is his brother. Once we are back in London I will put certain wheels in motion, and your master can expect an increased flow of funds from his late payers quite soon.”

Peterkin smiled.

“Thank you, sir”, he said.

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Sherlock was as good as his word, and two weeks later we had notes of thanks from Mr. Wild and from Peterkin, the latter suddenly very busy with lots of people who had seen the wisdom of paying their bills. Especially after one slow payer who.... I mean, what a way to use a set of fire-irons!

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	17. Case 212: The Adventure Of The Spotty Dog ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. Far sooner than anyone could have expected Mr. Hannibal Uttley once again impinges on the lives of Sherlock and John, albeit without any major international repercussions this time (phew!). A dog is behaving out of character – and for once it is John who cracks the case!

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

In the sixty original canon cases there were few if any instances of people returning to our lives, something that has been more than remedied in subsequent canons. And few returned quite so soon as Mr. Hannibal Uttley, whose sad farewell to his poisoned greyhound Cardinal Tosca had nearly caused international repercussions of the sort that he could not even have begun to imagine. Fortunately all had worked out after some efforts on my part, so I was surprised when just two and a half months later the gentleman called on us in Baker Street.

I include this in my list of 'cases worth publishing some day' for two further reasons. First, it was like so many something that started out as potentially important but like most of my investigations then petered out into nothing (if a gentleman's utter and complete mortification can be defined as nothing!). Second, it was a case actually solved by John! I only wish that it could have published in our final (1936) canon but the gentleman involved was still alive and, I suspect, still utterly and completely mortified by his lack of attention to his own hands, wherein the answer to this particular problem had lain all along.

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“I cannot begin to thank you enough, Mr. Holmes”, Mr. Uttley smiled as he took a seat by the fire. “All is well in my life, and that horrible Reg Clooney has finally been given the sack after some of his shadier dealings somehow came to light.”

He looked at me pointedly. I nodded slightly.

“I am always keen to see justice done to all, man _and_ beast”, I said. “I trust that young Cardinal Tosca is well. What has brought you all the way across London, sir? It must be important.”

He took a deep breath.

“It concerns Mr. Moray, to whom you were kind enough to introduce me”, he said. “We have got on very well, and he has even entrusted me to look after his wonderful dogs when he has to go out some times.”

That I knew to be the highest of high praise, for Mr. Albert Moray hardly ever trusted anyone with his beloved animals. John had not met him as of yet which would likely be a shock for him some day, for much as he was a wonderful human being Mr. Moray had his own unique 'dog scent' to which, praise the Lord, I was immune but whose effects I had seen on others. It was almost as bad as Randall's cologne, although I supposed that the latter at least had the advantage that it was flammable which, the way he was going, might come into play when he annoyed me too much some day. After all, our fireplace was very large.

I dragged myself away from some Very Happy Thoughts back to our visitor.

“I did not of course mention Mr. Moray to anyone at work”, Mr. Uttley said, “but yesterday the manager Mr. Smith approached me. As you might imagine I was very nervous, but he wished to ask my advice about a puppy that his daughter had recently acquired. She has had it for but a few days, he said, yet almost immediately upon arrival it had begun to behave strangely.”

“Did he give any more details than that?” I asked.

“He did not”, Mr. Uttley said. “I mentioned it to Mr. Moray and he said that it was most likely reacting to one of two things, one of the people around it or a change in its diet. You see, I am not exactly afraid of Mr. Smith but I would be very grateful if you might look into this for him. When I think of how much Cate meant to me and what her daughter does now, I would not like anyone to suffer a loss like that.”

He really was a very kind human being, far better than many potential clients who assumed that they merited my services as of right due to their elevated social status (and equally elevated noses). And by so doing ensured that they remained _potential_ clients!

“I shall be pleased to”, I said. “Hopefully we can do so this time without causing a major panic in Rome!”

Our visitor blushed.

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Mr. Uttley had explained that Mr. Smith was at a conference that day which was half-day closing, but would be back at the bank tomorrow, Friday. That was good as I had had far too many hours without sex with John, and that had to be remedied as a matter of the greatest urgency.

I was sat there some hours later feeling not at all smug when Luke came by. Unusually he did not have Benji in tow, as Bertha had dragged her husband to some horrible formal family affair.

“Although I love those affairs”, my cousin grinned, “as the young fellow always comes round afterwards all tensed up and wanting to let rip, so as it is a Friday I can put on the Panama and say to hell with sitting down any time soon!”

I shook my head at him. To think that he was one of the relatives that I liked! For reasons that increasingly eluded me, I might add!

“He is worried about Danny, though”, Jack said. “The boy admitted that he liked Carl but would never... well, honour runs in the family.”

“True”, I agreed.

“Along with the men being hung like horses!”

Just for that I was arranging for Benji to bring Danny and Lloyd with him one weekend soon. That would wipe the smile off his face, if only because he would be unable to operate enough facial muscles to manage one. Like someone else not that far from here.

“At least Anne took to him”, Luke said, “which frankly surprised me. She.... she is a good person but she does not get on with everyone.”

“She has Mycroft, Torver, Randall and Guilford as brothers-in-law”, I pointed out. “Never mind getting on; we should be grateful that she has not murdered one or more of them!”

“Should we really?” he grinned. “Why?”

As I said, terrible. _Especially when he knew damn well that he was right!_

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The following day we went to the Tottenham High Road to once more meet with Mr. Roderick Smith, only for Mr. Uttley to tell us that he was not in yet.

“We received a rather confusing telegram from his house”, he said worriedly. “I am afraid that things with Spot have got much worse.”

“Where does he live?” I asked.

“Only about ten minutes from here”, Mr. Uttley said. “A place called 'Hastings House' in Northumberland Park.”

“We had better go there at once”, I said. “Come, John.”

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Mr. Smith's house was, I thought, surprisingly small for that of a bank manager, although I noted that like quite a few properties round here it had copious grounds. We knocked at the door and were soon admitted, and a grateful if surprised bank manager welcomed us.

“You most definitely saved me from that terrible Mr. Clooney, sir”, he said. “I do not normally relish such a thing of course, but giving that fellow his cards was one of my happiest moments in my career thus far. I only hope that you can sort out the terrible problem now facing me.”

“What has happened?” I asked.

“Spot, my daughter Lily's dog, started frothing at the mouth this morning”, he said. “Of course we got her away from him and mercifully she had to go off to school so there was little fuss, but I...”

He stopped, clearly puzzled by something. I followed his line of sight to John who, for some reason, was staring at the fellow's hands.

“This 'Spot' is a Dalmatian, is he not?” John said, sounding unusually down I thought. “Black spots, not liver?”

“Yes”, Mr. Smith said, clearly wondering how he had known that (as was I for that matter!). “How on earth did you guess?”

“Because I have seen this with a patient before”, John sighed. “I have good news and bad news for you, sir. The good news is that your dog is not mad.”

“That is good”, Mr. Smith said warily. “But what is the bad news?”

“That your daughter has likely made you a target for severe embarrassment.”

“I do not follow”, Mr. Smith said (and neither did I).

John stepped forward and gestured to the manager's hands.

“That is boot-black, is it not?” he said.

Mr. Smith looked down at it. He touched one of the marks with his finger and looked at it, clearly perplexed.

“Yes”, he said. “I cannot think how it got there, unless my valet was careless or something.”

“He was not”, John said. “Can we see 'Spot', please?”

Mr. Smith was still clearly confused but led us through to a small back-room where a Dalmatian puppy was dozing in a basket. John went up to it and gently patted it several times, then showed us both his hand. It was as marked as Mr. Smith's was.

“Boot-black”, he said. “Your dog's markings are only a light black so your daughter, just like the Fields' daughter who I treated one time, decided to make them blacker.”

Mr. Smith turned bright red.

“Poor Lily”, he said. “She is only five, bless her.”

“Like so many things boot-black contains some dangerous chemicals”, John said, “and as this was a puppy, the effect was made worse. A good wash down and a quiet word with your daughter should do the trick, although unfortunately.....”

We all knew what me meant. This would inevitably reach the ears of the servants who would be smirking for several weeks if not longer, to their master's great discomfiture. That was just plain wrong; I could not abide people who smirked too much.

John coughed for some reason. I stared at him suspiciously.

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“A mostly happy ending”, I said as we were driven away from the house. “Except for poor Mr. Smith. But then not everyone can be a detective and spot these things.”

“I seem to recall that _I_ was the one who spotted it”, John said with a smile. 

“Yes, I suppose that you are good for some things”, I said absently. “Doctoring. Dogs. Hard, sweaty sex all afternoon.”

And there went his steady breathing. I was so bad to him - _or I soon would be!_

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	18. Case 213: The Adventure Of Black Peter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. A Victorian lady is horribly embarrassed as Sherlock agrees to hunt down a missing loathsome venomous feline shedding-machine, or as he calls it, 'a cat'. Meanwhile John has a few memorable history lessons.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It was exactly four weeks since our return from Lincolnshire and the Sir James Saunders case. I had thought the whole thing behind us, but the day of our return Sherlock went out saying that he wished to catch a certain shop we both knew not far away that provided certain 'items' that made certain memorable couplings even more memorable. 'That House' was one of those places which passers-by very pointedly looked away from as they traversed Baker Street, knowing full well what sorts of unmentionable horrors lurked behind its smoked glass windows. 

We made love that evening and Sherlock told me that he had ordered 'something special' from the place that he could pick up in two or three days' time. As he was trying to fuck my brains clean out of my head I may not quite have given his words my full attention, but what was left of me looked forward to whatever he had in mind.

Two days later Sherlock returned from the shop with two large packages, one of which he took and left in my room before going to his own and calling out for me to try the new outfit on he had bought me, insert the plug and then come to his room. Somewhat surprised I went into my room and opened the package.

_And nearly had a bloody heart-attack!_

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What seemed like an eternity later I knocked feebly at his door.

“Enter, brave soldier!”

It was a good thing that the top half of my uniform was mostly red beneath the brass breast-plate. It matched my face perfectly! 

Sherlock was laid out on his bed as so often, except that this time he was wearing the same Roman soldier's uniform that I was, the leather straps of his 'dress' broken only by one mightily impressive erection. Lord, if I died of a heart attack now, 'someone' would have some explaining to do when the police found me!

“Take a.... seat, soldier!” Sherlock grinned, palming himself and making even more blood rush to my lower brain. I almost staggered as I moved across the room but managed to hoist myself onto his bed and position myself ready. I felt the soft sound as the plug was removed and then replaced with something much longer and harder, and trembled.

“The Romans were a brutal bunch”, he said conversationally as if giving me an _impromptu_ history lesson was more important that fucking what was left of my brains out. “For example victorious soldiers would often smash out the teeth of their captives and force them to suck them off. But then what could one expect of an empire founded on slavery?”

He began easing in and I moaned in delight. Then the bastard stopped.

“The also considered love between men to be a Greek thing”, he said, “and they were really quite....”

I had had enough and with one thrust I forcibly impaled myself on his cock, almost yelling in triumph. Then he reached in, grabbed my rock-hard cock and, with only three quick jerks, had me coming so hard that I nearly passed out.”

“Very decorative, these leather strips”, he said as my world swam around me. “The Romans wore a tunic under it, especially in England given our climate. But it would be interesting to attend a costume party in these without that addition, do you not think?”

He was making me hard again with that terrible thought. _And the smirking bastard damn well knew it!_

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Sherlock had secured me three weeks away from the surgery so that my 'history lessons' could continue uninterrupted. I think that I barely saw the outside world at all during those wonderful days, and I later found that he had had his own _pteruges_ engraved with dates of his 'great victories' over me. I would have objected but that would have involved talking so I wisely refrained. 

I ignored my conscience which was sniggering at me for no good reason. Again.

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It was a warm July day that saw our landlady ascend to announce our next client. Mrs. Hudson looked strangely uncertain which considering the depth and breadth of humanity that she had ushered into our rooms over the years was a little worrisome. At least until we saw our visitor.

She was.... short. 

“Miss Beatrice Dickenson”, Mrs. Hudson announced, before withdrawing. 

The girl she left behind could not have been more than ten years old, a pretty blonde thing in a white dress that looked like it belonged in an advertisement rather than out on a busy London street. She looked at me thoughtfully.

“You are the shorter one so you must be Doctor Watson”, she said.

“I am”, I said, “and this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock had been sat opposite me at the table and stood up to bow to our guest before escorting her over to the fireside chair. Once she was seated he sat opposite her and she eyed him thoughtfully. I could definitely detect the beginnings of a simper in there, which was just _annoying!_

“This is where you say that I am very young”, she said pointedly. I suppressed a smile at her frankness.

“Madam”, Sherlock said courteously, “if that were the limit of my powers you would not be here to request my services this fine day. How may I be of assistance?”

“I wish you to find Blackie. My cat.”

To his credit Sherlock did not look surprised. Then again he had been asked to find even more trivial things for people. Far too often, in my opinion. 

“This 'Blackie' has gone missing?” Sherlock asked.

“He has been taken”, she said firmly. “He is a Siamese cat, one year and five months old; Mother takes him to shows and things which he _hates!_. He has a black head and tail; only three of his legs are fully black the off-foreleg being white. His full name is Black Peter of Novgorod which is silly, but then that is grown-ups for you!”

I hid a smile at her open disdain. However further conversation was prevented by a second knock at the door and Mrs. Hudson ushered in a frantic-looking woman who sighed in relief when she saw the girl.

“Beatty!” she said reprovingly. “I told you to wait outside the jewellery store for me. Why did you not?”

“I wished to see Mr. Holmes and his friend”, the girl said blithely. Her mother sighed.

“I must apologize, gentlemen”, the lady said ruefully. “My name is Mrs. Audrey Dickenson and this is my daughter Beatrice. I _tried_ telling her that you do not investigate lost pets but she is so determined when she gets her mind set on something. I am sorry that she has troubled you.”

Sherlock looked at her with his head tilted to one side, an expression that I knew denoted confusion.

“It is true that we _rarely_ take such cases”, he corrected her, “but since your daughter has put such an effort into bringing the matter to my attention, then the least that I can do is to investigate it as far as possible. Though I should say”, he continued turning back to the girl, “that not all my cases end successfully. It may be that your cat cannot be recovered for some reason. But yes, I am inclined to look into this matter.”

The girl looked insufferably smug while her mother looked even more worried.

“But Mr. Holmes, we cannot....”

“There will be no charge unless the cat is safely returned”, Sherlock cut in. “Should I manage to achieve that, I shall require Miss Dickenson to do two things. First, to provide me a picture of the cat that she has drawn herself, as a memento of the case. Second, to promise never to run off without her mother's permission again, even if it is to see a famous consulting detective. Those shall be my charges for this case.”

“Thank you!” the girl cried. Sherlock gestured for me to get my notebook and once I was ready and had shown Mrs. Dickenson to a seat he turned back to the lady's daughter. I readied my pen.

“One of the most important things in solving a crime is factual evidence”, he said. “I need as much information as possible. Now, on what day was this horrible crime perpetrated?”

“Yesterday”, the girl said. “I played with Blackie before I went to school in the morning, up to half-past eight. He was gone when I came home at just after three o' clock.”

She stared accusingly at her mother, who visibly fidgeted. I would have too, under that look.

“We recently moved to 'The Firs', a large detached house in St. John's Wood”, Mrs. Dickenson said. “Beatrice is our oldest child; we also have two sons John and Peter both of whom are away at boarding-school. The house is in Oak-Tree Close not far from St. John's Wood Road Station.”

“What servants do you have there?” Sherlock asked.

“The cook Mrs. Callaghan. Kay the parlourmaid and Bessie the housemaid. Walter my husband's valet, and June my own personal maid. Drayton the butler. Also there is Beatty's nanny Miss Harnham.”

The girl leaned forward slightly.

“I do not like Miss Harnham”, she said conspiratorially.

“Beatty, really!” her mother said reprovingly.

“Why not?” Sherlock asked.

“She is creepy. And she wears _make-up!”_

I barely managed to turn a laugh into a cough. The girl had said those words as if the nanny had committed some cardinal sin against humanity. She stared at me suspiciously but I was thankfully saved by Sherlock's next question to her mother.

“Do the servants live in, madam?”

“No”, she said. “George – my husband – chose the house because it was small but had large grounds. Which reminds me, we also have a gardener John-Paul, but he was away visiting his father that day and he lives out beyond Harrow if I remember.”

“Nevertheless we shall check him out”, Sherlock said. “We must leave no stone unturned. May I assume that the feline in question was valuable?”

“Extremely”, Mrs. Dickenson said. “I have had several offers from people who want to..... er, to borrow him. You know.”

“You mean to _breed_ from him, mummy”, the girl said causing her mother to turn bright red. “I am _ten_ , you know!”

I bit my lip. The girl may not yet have been a teenager but she could pull off scornful disdain with aplomb. Her mother looked absolutely mortified and I caught a twinkle in my friend's blue eyes which I knew denoted his own amusement.

“I think that it would be most useful to visit the scene of the crime”, Sherlock said. “Are you ladies finished with your London shopping?”

“Yes we are”, Mrs. Dickenson said clearly still surprised that Sherlock had taken her daughter's case. 

“Then if it is acceptable to you, the doctor and I will accompany you both back to St. John's Wood”, Sherlock said with a smile. “I know that he is working hard to document my case but a few hours of country air will do wonders for him. It may even improve the scrawl that masquerades as his handwriting!”

I scowled at him for that.

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'The Firs' was an unusual house in that as Mrs. Dickenson had correctly described it it was relatively small compared to its spacious grounds. My eyes were already watering although there was no cat present. Sherlock turned to Mrs. Dickenson.

“Is Blackie a house-cat?” he asked. 

“Most definitely”, she said firmly. “The few times we offered him the chance to go outside, he would take one look and stroll back to his basket.”

“How do your staff feel about him?” Sherlock asked.

“I suppose that the maids are not too fond of all the cat-hair”, the lady said, “but it is their job after all. Or Bessie's job I should say.”

“I shall need a full list of the addresses of all your staff, please”, Sherlock said. “Would you be able to write one out for me while your daughter shows me the areas that her beloved pet preferred?”

“Of course”, Mrs. Dickenson said. “Just be careful in the kitchen, Beatty. Mrs. Callaghan is cooking dinner just now and you know how she does not like to be disturbed.”

She left us with her daughter and went into a side-room. Miss Dickenson showed up the pet room where the cat slept and Sherlock carefully extracted some hair from the cat's bed before placing it in a small brown envelope and writing 'EVIDENCE' on it in capital letters. It clearly impressed the girl who led us to the library and then upstairs to the sun-room.”

“Blackie likes the library because it is cool”, she said, “and for when he feels poorly. This is the only place he goes outside on his own; he will come out with me into the garden sometimes and play out there but he always comes back in with me. He likes to sit in the sun on the balcony as it is sheltered from the wind. Janet or Bessie let him in and out; he knows to go round and paw at a window when he wishes to come back in. Mother wanted to have one of those cat-flaps put in for him but Father said that burglars might be able to use it to break in, so he said no.”

“Might not a thief be able to take him from here?” I asked looking around at the view. Sherlock shook his head.

“It is too open”, he said, looking into the distance. “Miss Dickenson, do you know where that path goes?”

She looked to where he was pointing.

“That is the only thing Mother and Father do not like about the house”, she said with a pout. “A footpath; our land runs right up to it. Daddy wanted to build a fence next to it to stop people walking onto our property, but the bad man at the council would not let him.”

“Typical busybodies!” I grunted. “A gentleman should be able to do what he wants on his own land!”

Sherlock was staring out across the land, deep in thought.

“Who usually feeds Blackie?” he asked eventually.

“Mrs. Callaghan”, the girl said. “Or at least she prepares the food; she says that cats should be always treated with respect. Blackie does not like the kitchen because it is either too warm or too cold for him, so Kay usually puts his food here and he comes and eats it when he is ready. Although he did go down there when it was really cold last winter.”

“Your maid does not bring his food out here then?” Sherlock asked. 

The girl laughed.

“Blackie is a dear”, she said, “but we would not make the maids wait on him hand and foot!”

“Hmm”, Sherlock said. “One more question. How is Blackie around strangers?”

“He _hates_ them!” the girl said firmly. “Every time we have guests to the house he has to be shut away. But that is often a good thing as I get to avoid meeting them too.”

“I see”, Sherlock said. “Miss Dickenson, I would like for you to approach Mrs. Callaghan and ask if it is acceptable for me to ask her some questions at this time, unless of course she is too busy. We both know how important cooks are these days.”

I was surprised at that but the girl duly skipped away. Once she was gone Sherlock turned to me.

“John”, he said, “I need you to do something for me.”

“Of course”, I said. “What?”

“While I am questioning the cook who will I suspect have little to tell us, I wish you to measure something. Go to the room below this balcony and walk fairly quickly from the house over to the nearest point of that footpath. I need to know how long it takes for an adult man to traverse that distance and what the ground is like. Also take a look in the flower-beds beneath the balcony.”

“What am I looking for?” I asked.

“Possibly nothing”, he said. “It is just a hunch.”

I resisted the urge to swat at him. Just.

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“It took me seventy-three seconds to reach the path”, I told him when we met up afterwards, “and the ground was firm all the way so with no rain of late I doubted there would have been any footprints. But someone had been round behind the rhododendron bush on the north side of the balcony; there were footprints leading in and out. Size eight I think, and a well-worn shoe.”

“Excellent!” he beamed. “As it happened I was wrong about the cook; she did have information pertinent to the case.”

“How so?” I asked.

“She told me that someone set off a firework in the road outside the day the cat was taken”, Sherlock said.

“That is useful information?” I asked dubiously.

“Indeed”, he said. “It brings me closer to solving the case. 

Miss Dickenson skipped up to us at that moment.

“Have you solved it yet?” she asked eagerly. Sherlock chuckled.

“I must tell the doctor to refrain from making my craft look too easy”, he smiled. “Miss Dickenson, you are clearly a young lady of forthright opinions so I would prefer to ask you certain questions rather than your mother. What does your father do for a living?”

She scrunched up her nose as in distaste.

“Father works in a _bank!”_ she sighed. She sounded so depressed at the fact that I nearly laughed.

“Does he or your mother play with Blackie at all?” Sherlock asked. She shook her head

“Father does not like him at all”, she said. “He has the same sort of thing the doctor does with the watery eyes and everything. When he thinks that Mother and I are not listening he calls him 'Sir Shreddington'; the dear clawed his favourite chair one time after he had yelled at him. Mother really loves him, although she does make him go to those awful shows. Worse, she makes Father help bathe him first; it takes hours to get him ready!”

Mrs. Dickenson approached us just then and the girl reddened slightly at her candour. Fortunately her mother seemed not to have overheard or was tactful enough to pretend the same.

“I have completed the list that you wanted, Mr. Holmes”, she said. “I am sorry that it took so long.”

“Accurate information is always worth waiting for”, Sherlock said. “Thank you.”

He turned to Miss Dickenson. 

“I hope to have some news soon”, he said. “I will send you a telegram when that happens, I promise.”

“I believe in you!” she said firmly.

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“Why did you ask the question about the cat's eating regimen?” I asked as we waited for the cab to arrive at the house.

“Because there was a small piece of cat food in the corner of the balcony”, he said. “Someone took the food out there that day which means that someone wanted the cat to be outside.”

“But the cat goes there anyway!” I objected.

“That is what makes it so interesting”, he smiled.

I glared at him.

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We had travelled to 'The Firs' from St. John's Wood Road, which was on the same line as Baker Street's own station. It was only when we passed under the railway that I realized we were not returning that way. We continued on to a small terraced house just beyond where St. John's Wood gave way to the rather less salubrious Maida Vale district. I looked at Sherlock in surprise.

“The home of one of the servants”, he said. “A hunch.”

“Your hunches are usually accurate”, I observed. “Which one?”

“The valet, Mr. Walter Yavington.”

“Why him?” I asked.

“Because he is the obvious suspect”, Sherlock said teasingly.

Not for the first time and likely not for the last either, I ruminated on the likelihood of him investigating his own murder from beyond the grave if he carried on like this! But as I had said before, even being dead would likely not have stopped him from solving it!

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The valet was not at home but we were met by his wife Elizabeth who was nursing a baby boy. Sherlock asked her several inconsequential questions (in my opinion) and it seemed that whatever she was using on her child was also provoking a reaction from me for I found note-taking difficult with my eyes streaming all the time I was there. Sherlock looked sympathetically at me when we left.

“I am sorry about that”, he said. “But at least the case is solved now.”

“Solved?” I asked in surprise. “How?”

“All should become clear tomorrow morning”, he said. “We shall have a guest at Baker Street then. They will bring the cat.”

I stared at him in astonishment, then annoyance as it became clear that I would have to wait. Again.

Damnation!

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A nagging thought had been pecking away at the back of my mind since the start of this case although I had enough wits about me not to voice it. Typically Sherlock waited until he was on top of me in bed that night, holding me down with ease before he challenged me over it.

“You have been worried about something all day”, he said. “What is it?”

I swallowed nervously. Damnation! I had so hoped he would not notice and there was no way I could lie to him. Then he breached me with one finger, and I temporarily lost the powers of both speech and coherent thought. This was so not the time but I had to answer.

“I just thought”, I managed eventually, my eyes watering as he brushed my prostate teasingly, “the case.”

“What about it?” he asked blithely adding a second finger and starting to scissor me open. I let out the sort of noise usually associated with a walrus in distress.

“The typical happy family”, I said. “Husband, wife and three children. What with your family the other week..... ohhhhhh!”

He looked at me in clear bemusement, which was a complete joke as he now had three fingers inside me.

“What of it?” he asked.

“Do you not ever think that because..... well, us, you missed out on that?” I managed.

He froze and I felt my whole body go cold. Then he slowly began to move his fingers again and leaned forward.

“John”, he said softly, “I love you more than life itself. The times I was away from you I was not whole. I know that if I asked you to go out around London tomorrow with a cock-ring on and a plug inside of you, you would. Because you love me just as much.”

I should have been shamed by that. Hell, when it came to Sherlock I would have done that and whatever other humiliation he wanted to impose on me. I had no pride as far as he was concerned.

“But that is it”, he said softly.

“What?” I was confused.

“You would do anything I asked”, he said. “I would do anything you asked. But we love each other enough to know that it would be asking, not demanding, and that if the person being asked was uncomfortable we would withdraw the request at once. The Romans ruled through fear, but we rule each other through love.”

My eyes were watering with all the dust in the room.

“Still”, he said, “perhaps if you are not feeling in the mood...”

“Get inside me you bastard!” I almost snarled. 

And in one swift movement he did, impaling me on that python of his so that I let out another walrus-like moan of ecstatic pleasure. There was no finesse, no tenderness, just Sherlock driving me straight from zero to orgasm in the shortest possible time. We came simultaneously, my body falling limp and useless while his fell untidily on top of me, smearing my come between us.

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I woke next morning feeling refreshed and realized that Sherlock must have cleaned me up at some point. He was now spooning me from behind and knowing how bad a morning person he was I knew better than to try to wake him. I valued my life!

Some hours later I was sat writing at my table when I felt a familiar watering in my eyes. I looked around in surprise but there was no-one there. I was about to ask Sherlock about it when there was a knock at the door.

“Enter!” he called out.

A short, sharp-faced middle-aged man came into the room, somewhat reluctantly I thought. He appeared to be suffering to an even greater degree from the same streaming eyes that I was but my attention was drawn not to that nor to the somewhat bedraggled appearance of his clothing. No, it was the furious hissing coming from the cat-basket that he was attempting to hold as far away from his person as possible. Sherlock smiled.

“Good morning, Mr. Dickenson”, he said politely.

Our guest placed the cat-basket in a corner of the room then took the fireside seat, still dabbing his eyes. If he was trying to look pitiful to us it worked on me. But not apparently on Sherlock.

“I hardly know where to start with your catalogue of criminality”, my friend said coldly. “Theft. The wilful compulsion of a servant to participate in said theft. The emotional distress caused to your own child and to your good lady wife. You, sir, are no gentleman!”

“You do not know what it is like!” the man groaned. “That damn thing gets everywhere and sheds like its life depends on it! My house was no longer my own!”

“That does not excuse your actions”, Sherlock said firmly. “Were it not for the emotional upheaval that would doubtless arise I would gladly inform your wife of your diabolical behaviour in this matter.”

The man looked horrified.

“You cannot!” he blurted out.

“I can”, Sherlock said firmly. “However, provided you adhere to certain conditions that I am about to impose – and no, sir, they are not negotiable – then I will accept the restoration of the feline to your wife and daughter.”

The man sniffed mournfully.

“First”, Sherlock said, “know that when I restore the cat to your daughter I will be insisting on regular letters as to its well-being. Should Blackie meet any more ‘problems’ in what I am sure will be a long and happy life at 'The Firs', I may feel compelled to call round and tell your wife everything.”

“Fine!” the man growled. “Is that it?”

“No”, Sherlock said. “I know your sort, sir, and you are never happy unless someone is paying for _your_ mistakes. I shall also be contacting your valet and assuring him that if you take any punitive action against _him_ , I shall call on your own employers and inform them of your thieving tendencies. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly!” the man ground out, wiping his eyes. “I assume that I can leave the wretched thing with you?”

“You may”, Sherlock said. “I hope for your sake that we shall not meet again. Good day, sir.”

Our visitor sniffed, spared one last glare at the cat-basket and all but fled from the room. I stared at Sherlock in astonishment.

“How did you know that it was him?” I asked. “Or the valet for that matter?”

“It was obvious”, he said. I swallowed my annoyance.

“Please explain for my future readers”, I managed. And my eyes were watering again. He smiled.

“We were told that the cat did not respond well to strangers”, he explained, “so only someone he knew could have smuggled him away from the house. Since the master clearly disliked him that was motive, but Mr. Dickenson knew that the cat hated him sufficiently for him not to be able to take him without an almighty fuss. Better to blackmail an unwilling servant into doing it for him. Bringing it here today must have been a special kind of torment which was why I insisted on it. We saw that the valet has a young child, hence the threat of unemployment would have been doubly effective.”

“Evil!” I snorted. “No-one should treat servants like that!”

“The valet plants a firework at the front of a house with a slow-burning fuse”, Sherlock went on. “Some little time before it is due to go off he moves Blackie's food-dish to the balcony, enticing him there. He has also lightly drugged the food so that the cat will be dozy at the time of the explosion which, as he knows, will temporarily draw everyone to the front of the house. While they are there he places the cat in a basket and lowers it down to the ground, where there is a flower-bed that hides it. Being off work during the daytime hours as he is, he leaves soon after, doubles round the back of the house and collects the basket before taking the cat home.”

“How did you know that he took the cat home?” I asked. He grinned.

“You told me.”

“What?”

“You had the same reaction in the valet’s house as at 'The Firs' yet my questioning elicited the fact that they do not have a cat”, he explained. “Plus of course the shoes by the door which were size eight and worn and which I observed on the way in. Thank you for your help by the way.”

“Hmm, a portable cat-hair detector”, I grumbled. “I feel so used!”

He just laughed, the bastard!

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Miss Dickenson’s reunion with Blackie was a joyous affair; she presented Sherlock with the promised drawing and said that she would send a second and better one now that she had her darling pet back again. Mrs. Dickenson thanked us for our help and they left, mercifully taking the eye-watering fur-ball with them. 

We had just settled back in when there was another knock at the door and Miss Dickenson put her head around it. We both looked at her in surprise.

“Mother is in the cab”, she said, “and I told her that I just wanted to say thank-you again. For everything.”

“Of course”, Sherlock smiled.

She hesitated before speaking again.

 _“Including Father!”_ she said with a knowing look, before disappearing off down the stairs. Sherlock chuckled.

“A most intelligent young lady”, he said. “It was a pleasure doing business with her.”

He placed the picture carefully in his table and a week later it was hanging on the wall properly framed. Just days later Sherlock presented our landlady with a new cat, a young tawny-brown kitten of a thing that they called Duncan. My friend reassured me that it was a British Shorthair, one of the few breeds that shed relatively little. I loved him even more for that.

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	19. Case 214: Descent Into Purgatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. A ghastly case in which Watson once more come close to losing the man he loves but is, for once, very very lucky.   
> Or is he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the case of Wilson, the canary-trainer.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Just after the wedding of Mr. Malone and Mrs. Hudson that summer I had a new book out featuring a collection of Sherlock’s cases and, very reluctantly, I had bowed to pressure (all right, and the promise of a large bonus!) from my erstwhile publishers Brett, Burke & Hardwicke to attend two book-signing sessions at the famous Hatchard’s Bookshop in Piccadilly. The shop had also promised a sizeable donation to my friend's Boys' Home otherwise I would never have subjected myself to this ordeal as I had a general hatred of publicity. However I did feel that I owed my publishers something for letting me bring Sherlock's fame to a wider audience as his books were now selling well across the Empire. Although when they then went and suggested a book tour around the British Isles, I very quickly put my foot down!

I mention this because of a small incident that arose from the first of the two signings. My audience (mostly female for reasons that, I blush to admit, escaped me at the time) were lined up with their books to be signed and all went well until one of the ladies asked me a question:

“Those little eccentricities of his”, she whispered. “The smirking, the pipe, the silly hat, the barley-sugars – do they not drive you quite mad?”

I looked at her in surprise.

“Of course not!” I almost snapped. “That is just who he is. Sherlock without all those things just would not be Sherlock!”

She stared at me in shock.

“You called him _Sherlock!”_ she whispered as if I had just revealed to her the true location of the Holy Grail. “You _never_ called him Sherlock in your books!”

This was quite true. In my original stories published largely for a Victorian audience, the idea of using someone's first name in formal conversations would, unlike today, have seemed most disrespectful. I had been extremely careful in my previous stories to make sure that everyone viewed our relationship as just two gentlemen friends who happened to room together. Yet the looks that I was getting from the ladies in the queue suggested that they had either seen through that subterfuge or that they wished us closer than I had stated. If only they knew; Sherlock and I could hardly be getting any closer! And to cap it all the heat from the lights was making me blush. 

Shut up!

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The conversation stuck in my memory like a burr and I found it difficult to shake it off. It was still there two days later when Sherlock did something that was rather odd even for him.

The summer of that year had been warm but with a pleasant cooling breeze most days and I had not gone into the surgery that week because of my signing session. The previous day Sherlock had received a telegram from his cousin Mr. Garrick containing, rather oddly, just exclamation marks, and when I asked why he had explained that he had arranged for Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles's brothers Lloyd and Daniel to join him to mark the government official's birthday (it was actually the following month but he would be abroad then). Poor Mr. Garrick; he would not be making any more snarky comments to Sherlock when they met at the gymnasium!

The following morning Sherlock had been gazing out of our large window for some little time when he suddenly strode across to the pile of old newspapers we kept for the fire, picked one up and laid it flat on the table then wrote several words on it before striding back to the window and taping the paper to it. I stared in astonishment.

“Doubtless you think me mad, doctor”, he said with a chuckle, “but that fellow opposite has been staring at this house for nearly a quarter of an hour and has twice started across the road only to draw back. He may be a potential client but only if we can actually get him through the door!”

“Ah”, I said. “You wrote him a note telling him to come in.”

“Oh doctor, your detective powers _amaze_ me!” he said, holding his arm melodramatically to his head as if about to swoon. I looked around but unfortunately there was nothing at hand to throw at him so I settled for a scowl. He sniggered at me, which did not help matters.

Sure enough, some few moments later Mrs. Malone opened our door. Our landlady gave our visitor a sharp look – he had obviously done his best but he was still rather dirty – before announcing him as ‘Mr. James Banks’ with a look that made it clear what would happen if he made a mess. The fellow swallowed nervously; I would have done much the same in his position.

“Pray take a seat, Mr. Banks”, Sherlock said. “I appreciate that this is not your usual environment but there are fewer dangers here than in the many years that you have obviously spent underground.”

The man visibly baulked.

“Sir!” he gasped.

“Come, come”, Sherlock said gently. “The ingrained dirt could come from any labouring post but the slight stoop and the rasped breathing point to a considerable amount of time spent underground. Yet it is less than might be expected for a man of your age, so you have not been there of late.”

The man nodded then hesitated. He looked ready to bolt, I thought.

“You would not be here today if you did not think that there was at least a chance of me taking your case”, Sherlock said comfortingly. “Relax. You have got as far as the famous fireside chair which, considering the inordinate amount of time that you dallied outside, is in itself a major achievement. At least let us know the reason for your visit.”

The man seemed to sag but finally spoke.

“I know you take on all sorts of cases, sirs”, he said (I felt a warm feeling at the plural), “but this is…. difficult. I fear for my son Jimmy and.... I think that he may die very soon.”

 _'Die' rather than 'be killed',_ I thought, wondering at his choice of words. He ground to a halt and looked at us almost pleadingly. 

Sherlock sighed. It was going to be another of Those Interviews.

“Your son is a miner?” he asked.

“Yes…. no…. at least not yet….”

It was like pulling teeth. Sherlock suddenly leaned forward and lifted the man’s downturned face, staring straight into his eyes.

“The facts, sir”, he said in a commanding voice. _“All_ the facts. Starting with where you work, please.”

“At the Purgatory Colliery, near Reculver down in Kent, sir”, he said. “I’m a mining engineer.”

“You think that your son may be in danger”, Sherlock mused. “You work in a field of logic where errors can cost many men their lives, so what facts and/or observations have led you to that conclusion?”

“I want Jimmy to become an engineer above ground”, the man said. “But he insists on doing six months down the mines first before he’ll do that or even consider anything else.”

“Do you not think that the experience alone might deter him?” I asked. Our guest shook his head.

“He's very determined”, he said. “He made me promise that if he could stick it out I would let him stay down there as on-site engineer. But sirs…. I am scared.”

Sherlock poured the man a large whisky and gave it to him, watching as he downed it with impressive rapidity. The poor fellow was shaking slightly, and I felt quite sorry for him.

“You, sir, are an engineer”, he said patiently. “If you have some knowledge as to something that threatens your son’s life then say so, and say it now.”

“That damn Paddy Wilson!”

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We both stared at him but the effort that the man had visibly had to make just to get that name out seemed to have drained him. Sherlock poured him another whisky and he sipped it this time.

“Who is this 'damn Paddy Wilson', pray?” Sherlock asked.

“Until two months ago the mine was totally owned by Lord Falconhurst”, our guest said. “I won’t say he was a good owner; harsh but fair was his way. He drove a hard deal with the union but once it was agreed he stuck to it, unlike some in our trade. Unfortunately he sold a half-share in the place two months back and things in Purgatory have been living down to its name ever since.”

“How so?” Sherlock asked. Our client took a deep and raspy breath.

“Mr. Wilson made his fortune bringing back rare birds from foreign parts”, our guest said, “and selling them to zoos and rich folks. The only ones he kept were regular canaries because that's his hobby; he sold some to the mine and that was how he got linked to us.”

“Why did Lord Falconhurst sell part of the mine?” I asked. “Was he in financial difficulties?”

“Not such as you mean sir”, our guest said. “Two months ago we found a rich new seam that stretches out under where the North Sea meets Old Father Thames. But these underwater seams are tricky and expensive to mine so Mr. Wilson was brought in to provide the extra money.”

“And things have been going wrong since he arrived on the scene”, Sherlock said. “Exactly what things, pray?”

“The week after he came to look at the workings seven of the men collapsed due to fumes and had to be carried out”, our guest said. “Then last month the same thing happened again, and we nearly lost two men due to poisoning.”

“Surely the canaries would have stopped singing?” I asked. “That is what they are for is it not?”

Our guest nodded. 

“I don't get why”, he said, frowning. “Mr. Wilson suggested that it may be a new type of gas, one that the birds are somehow immune to. Could be that; the coal is the very highest quality so perhaps that has something to do with it. He tried a different breed of canary afterwards and that seemed to work when they stopped for a leak only last week.”

My friend sat back and surveyed our guest who flinched under his examination.

“It is rather like the much-vaunted female intuition”, Sherlock said. “Either consciously or subconsciously and more likely the latter, you have observed something that has set off an alarm bell strident enough to bring you here to seek our help. Someone of your experience is more likely to be right than wrong in such a feeling. When does your son start down the mine?”

“In three weeks’ time, sir.”

“Then we must solve this case in three weeks”, Sherlock said. “I have one idea as to what the correct solution may be, but proving it will I am afraid be another matter. If you leave your address with the good doctor we will send you a telegram should there be any developments.”

“You will take the case?” the man said, looking almost incredulous.

“Your son’s life may be in danger”, Sherlock said. “Yes, we will take the case. It may even involve a trip to the Garden of England itself and a descent into Purgatory!”

I know that they say hindsight is always perfect but I most definitely had a bad feeling about the name of that mine. One which was to prove all too accurate.

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I fully expected Sherlock to ask me to accompany him to Kent within the next few days, but to my surprise he spent the following week mostly at the library researching something. In a way it was fortunate; Lady Mason, one of my more important clients, was still expecting her first grandchild and the prospective mother seemed set on having an elephantine pregnancy which was now into its tenth month. I could not leave the capital until her child made its belated entrance into the world and it was annoying.

Also annoying was the arrival of Sherlock's brother Randall one morning, even if he did bring some information that my friend had requested. 

“What did you want to find out from that pest?” I asked after the lounge-lizard had thankfully departed to annoy someone else.

“Mr. Patrick Wilson's recent travel arrangements”, he said. “I wished to know which countries he had visited in pursuit of his avian collection. I was particularly interested to find that he has been to central southern Africa, or Rhodesia as it has now become.”

“Why so?” I asked.

“Because that was where I hoped he would have gone”, he said. 

We were interrupted at that moment by the arrival of a telegram. I read it and sighed in relief.

“Mrs. Broadhurst's baby has _finally_ decided that it is ready to grace the world with its presence!” I announced. “Only two weeks late! I must go at once.”

“I shall not go down to Kent until you are returned, then”, he said.

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Unfortunately, this turned out to be easier said than done. Having waited so much longer than usual the new Master Broadhurst made a most difficult entrance into the world, not helped by his being nearly nine pounds when he appeared. His mother lost a lot of blood in the process and I felt compelled to remain at the hospital or at least to be on call until she was out of danger. The boy himself was fine and his grandmother was pleased with my prompt attendance, but again I could not leave London while Sherlock's three weeks were rapidly running out. Even as a doctor there was little I could actually do except that my presence reassured the patient who just needed copious amounts of both time and rest to recover from her ordeal. It was all exceedingly vexing. 

It was a Friday when we received a telegram from Mr. Banks reminding us that his son was due to start down the mine the following Tuesday. That same day Mrs. Broadhurst suffered a fall when she tried to walk a short distance from her hospital bed, and I informed her mother that her daughter would likely do better in her own home if she could be guaranteed complete bed-rest. She was moved to her home on Saturday and I spent most of that day and Sunday with her.

“Mr. Banks says that his son is making a preliminary trip down the mine on Monday afternoon”, Sherlock told me on the Sabbath. “I shall have to go down to Kent tomorrow. I have my suspicions and if I can check something down there I should be able to complete the case.”

“What time do you leave?” I asked. “I have promised to call in on Lady Mason tomorrow and travel with her to see her daughter, but if all is well I can travel on with you.”

“But if it is not young Mr. Banks will go down the mine”, Sherlock said with a sigh. “No, after that fateful delay in the Aylesbury case we dare not risk it. I shall take the morning train from Victoria and since your patient resides in Aldwych you can take a train from Charing Cross if she only needs you for a short time. If I get out at Sturry† and you at Herne Bay you may even beat me there. But we must go tomorrow, or at least I must.”

He did not mention it to me but my increasing forebodings about this case down the eerily-named mine led me that night to decide to take my gun with me the next day. After all, I told myself, it was not as if I had some handy guardian angel around to whom I could entrust the blue-eyed genius every time he was out of my sight.

I would have cause to remember that particular thought.

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Luck was not with me the next day. Lady Mason kept me waiting at her house for what seemed like an eternity, and when we finally reached her daughter's house the fool woman had strained herself by trying to walk again. I threatened her with a return to hospital and that she might even endanger her chance of any future children (almost certainly untrue, but sometimes we doctors have to stretch the facts somewhat in order to drive the message home). I also called in briefly on young Master Broadhurst who was showing a lot more sense than either of his relatives and sleeping soundly. Presumably he had got his brains from his father.

My chances of making it to Reculver before Sherlock disappeared completely when heavy traffic meant that I missed the Thanet train. Fortunately – my one break of the day – there was a Dover train in half an hour which meant that I could take a cab from Canterbury, not much further from the mine than from where my friend would alight. That would be expensive but I had a growing feeling of unease about allowing Sherlock to start out alone and I would not be happy until I caught him up. 

Proof yet again that good things happening were immediately followed by bad ones where I was concerned came at Faversham, when our train came to a stop and, to my impotent fury, did not restart. After a seemingly interminable wait we were informed that the engine had failed and we would therefore have to wait for the next train. I stared up at the Heavens and had more than one uncharitable thought in that direction. I would now have to get a carriage all the way to Reculver from here – nearly twenty miles and relatively slow – or risk waiting for the next Thanet train. This was absolutely....

“Doctor Watson?”

I looked up at my name. A goods train was standing across the other side of the platform I was on and the fellow who had spoken to me was the guard, a dirty but amiable-looking young blond fellow of about my age. I thought that he looked vaguely familiar from somewhere, but given the number of people that I saw as a doctor that meant little or nothing. 

“Sal Higginbotham”, the man grinned. “You delivered my youngest, Ben, in Bermondsey, winter of 'Eighty-Eight.”

I did not remember the fellow, but I did have patients in Bermondsey and I saw no reason for him to lie. I smiled in acknowledgement.

“Where're you headed, sir?” he asked. 

“I was trying to get to a place called Reculver”, I said, “although the nearest station is Herne Bay. As you can see my train gave up on me.”

He grinned.

“Hop aboard then.”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“It's no problem”, he said cheerily. “The line goes right by there though there's no station; I'll go tell Geoff to stop there to let you off.”

I could hardly believe my change of luck. And before the reader says anything, events not long after would show that I was right to be so damn cynical!

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The goods train was of course nothing like as fast as a passenger one, but it made up for that by not stopping at any of the stations that we chuffed through at a fair whack. Mercifully there were also no signals to delay us, one actually changing to clear just as we were starting to slow for it. The train finally drew to a halt just before a brick overbridge.

“You have to clamber up to the road”, the guard said pointing to a barely-discernible path through the brambles, “then left. The mine's less than a mile on. Good hunting, doctor!”

I thanked him profusely and in my haste forgot even to tip him for his generosity. He had been right; from the roadway I could see the junction over which the smoke was rising from the stationary train as well as the outlying buildings of the mine. I hurried onwards. 

Finally I was there and to my relief I found Mr. James Banks smoking a cigarette outside the main building, looking up in surprise at my noisy arrival. I hurried over to him.

“Where is Sherlock?” I asked urgently.

“He went to examine the bird-cages”, the man said clearly surprised by my haste. “Is something wrong?”

“Take me to him!” I ordered. I probably had no right to order him about in this way but I was past caring. Every instinct in me was telling me that something was terribly, terribly wrong – and when two men emerged coughing from the mine that instinct became a certainty.

“Sherlock!” I yelled and started towards where the men had emerged from. Mr. Banks reached out to try to stop me, but I wrenched myself free.

“Doctor, there's gas down there!” he yelled. “It's dangerous!”

Although nothing was going to stop me I had just about enough sense left to take out a handkerchief and hold it to my mouth. Thankfully the bird-cages lay just inside the mine-entrance from which more men were now staggering. Next to the cage a familiar long-coated figure lay slumped to the ground, unconscious.

“Sherlock!” I yelled again and dropped the handkerchief to grab for him. I could feel the noxious fumes though they were mercifully faint as I was still within sight of the entrance. Less mercifully my friend was a dead weight. 

I was about to try to pick him up when I heard something move behind me. I suppose that I should have assumed it was one of the men escaping from the mine but some inner instinct warned me otherwise and I moved quickly to one side. Just as well, as a blow from some heavy object glanced off my arm. I let Sherlock fall much as it hurt me to do that and span round. A short, ginger-haired fellow with a manic expression was wielding an iron bar while glaring at me, clearly preparing to finish me off. I did not hesitate but pulled my gun from my pocket and shot him at nearly point blank range, remembering a fraction of a second rather too late that gunshots around escaping gas might not have been the best of ideas. Fortunately the only consequence of my actions was that the villain before me reeled back against the far wall before crumpling to the ground.

_“John?”_

The sound of my friend's gasping brought me back to reality and I realized we were both in a mine which was leaking poisonous fumes and which could still kill us if I did not get my act together, as in right now. I hoisted Sherlock's thin frame – the fellow never ate enough and for once I was glad of it – then gripped him tight and made my way out of the mine, my eyes streaming and my throat aching but happy in my heart.

My friend was safe. Nothing else mattered.

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The thirty-one and a half minutes that it took Sherlock to fully regain consciousness was one of the longest periods of my life even though I was distracted by helping to care for the other men who had come up. By the Grace of God there were no fatalities except for the man I had shot who, as I had guessed, turned out to be Mr. Patrick Wilson. Explanations for his actions would have to wait for my friend's recovery, as would everything else.

Sherlock finally came round, and I could hardly contain my relief. He was his usual adorably confused self just like he was most mornings before his first cup of coffee, and I had to tell him everything that had happened. The only other casualty it turned out had been his coat; apparently I had cut myself while rushing into the mine and there was a trail of my blood on it from where I had first grabbed him. I had not even noticed the blood loss.

“I am sorry”, I said. “I am sure it will wash out.”

He laughed, then coughed at the effort. My heart winced at his suffering.

“I have you to thank for my life”, he said, his watery eyes seeming even bluer than usual. “You rescued me from Purgatory. Thank you.”

“All part of the service”, I said dismissively, feeling a little embarrassed by his praise. His grip on my arm suddenly tightened.

“I mean it”, he said. “Those books of yours do you a disservice, John. I am nothing without you.”

Damnation, I was getting emotional He knew how much I hated the Feelings thing!

“When you feel well enough, Lord Falconhurst is here”, I said, desperate to change the subject. “He has closed the mine for the day but I would hazard that he would quite welcome an explanation as to why I just murdered his business partner.”

“Shot in self-defence”, he corrected firmly. “You are not a murderer, John. Yes, I feel better now. If you could fetch Mr. Banks then get me a drink of water – or better still a coffee - I will attend them both shortly.”

I smiled at him and went to do his bidding.

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The four of us were sat in Mr. Banks's small office. Lord Falconhurst was younger than I had expected, a pale blond fellow in his late thirties who seemed bewildered at the dramatic turn of events.

“What I want to know”, Mr. Banks said, “is why those damn birds didn't sing. That's what canaries do for Heaven's sake!”

Sherlock sipped his (third) coffee, brought him by a secretary young enough to have been his daughter and, yes, who had simpered at him. For once even that did not bother me.

Much.

“That is indeed true”, my friend said with that knowing smile of his. “Except that the birds in those cages are not canaries.”

“What do you mean, sir?” Lord Falconhurst asked. 

Sherlock turned to him.

“When Mr. Wilson learned that you were looking for backers to fund the exploration of a new underwater seam”, he said, “he knew from his own experience that there was a risk of poison gas pockets. He also knew just how much money could be made from this seam, even if it was only partially exploited. Among his many travels thus far in his life had been a trip out to what is now Rhodesia, in southern Africa. In the heart of the Dark Continent there are doubtless many strange species still yet to be discovered but one of the ones that he had fetched back from there is the set of creatures in those cages in your mine, sir. Although they may look similar, they are _not_ canaries.”

“What are they, then?” the nobleman asked.

“The native word is _ulumbaju_ which translates loosely as 'swamp-callers'” Sherlock said. “Nature has endowed these birds with the ability to survive even in the noxious air surrounding what we in the developed world call, rather pathetically in my opinion, hot springs. Like canaries the birds can sing, but their songs are designed primarily to mimic the wing-beats of certain insects that they prey on. Their victims approach thinking to find a mate then fall victim to the noxious gases and end up as a meal. Fortunately for Mr. Wilson the swamp-callers are not fussy eaters so they can survive on a diet of British insects or even bird-food.”

“I do not see it”, the nobleman said.

“When your men accidentally exposed a pocket of poison gas a normal canary would stop singing”, Sherlock explained. “A swamp-caller on the other hand would simply carry on. As your bird supplier he would change to normal canaries occasionally so you might just think yourself unlucky. It was his good fortune that the birds resemble canaries, but according to research that I carried out at my local library there are at least seventeen small but notable differences between the species.”

He turned to me and looked almost apologetic.

“I had assumed that you were held back for the whole day, so I decided to check the birds for myself”, he said, looking almost as if he thought I would reprimand him for such an action. “I could not know that Mr. Wilson himself happened to be testing birds further into the mine. Presumably he came back and worked out what I was doing, then struck me from behind.”

“The bastard!” I said fervently. “I am glad that I shot him!”

“Your new seam may still be able to be developed, provided you use canaries this time”, Sherlock told Lord Falconhurst. “Though perhaps a more rigorous examination of future business partners may also be in order.”

The nobleman blushed at the gentle reprimand.

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We had to wait for the local policeman to come and take my statement, but fortunately Mr. Banks had witnessed the whole thing and the constable was sure that there would be no difficulties. Sherlock and I were able to travel back, he insisting on paying for my ticket to go with him despite the fact I had a return on the Chatham Line. I did not need much persuading especially as I still felt angry at myself for letting him get into danger like this.

I do not know why, but it was not until we safely back in the sanctuary of Baker Street that it truly hit me. I had nearly lost him again! I let out a guttural cry and sank to the couch, curling up into myself.

“John”, he said anxiously. “What is it?”

I turned an agonized face up to him.

“I nearly lost you!” I bit out not knowing whether to be angry with him or hug the living daylights out of him. “I cannot....”

I curled back into myself, trying not to cry. Grown men did not cry. I felt him sit down next to me on the couch and lay a gentle hand on the side of my head.

“John”, he said gently, “this is my life... our lives. You know that the prospect of my making old bones has never been good....”

I let out a sob at that. I should have been ashamed of myself but I was past caring. 

“I need you!” I said, almost bitterly. “Need you inside me, Sherlock. Now.”

He hesitated only briefly before gently helping me to my feet and across the room to his door. The gentle almost tender way he undressed me was a further strain on my shattered emotions and I sniffed as he removed my clothing.

“I want you to undress me as well”, he said, helping me back up off the bed and standing before me. I nodded dumbly, and set to work although his gentle running of a finger around my chin nearly broke me again. I loved this man so much and once again the Fates had so nearly taken him from me.

Finally I was done and he guided me gently back onto his bed, He was often tender in our couplings but I do not think I had ever known him this gentle, almost as if he was afraid he would break me. Part of me wanted him to take me fast and rough, but this slow and sensual lovemaking was wonderful in its way and I relaxed into the bed barely even feeling it as he gently eased me open. I even almost missed feeling him enter me so blissed out was I by his careful touches. This was not our usual race to orgasm or even the frantic coupling while denying ourselves that release; this was something deeper and, in a strange way, even more erotic. 

He was finally fully in and leaned forward to gently place his chest against mine whispering how much he loved me. I felt the final vestiges of stress leaving me and the last thing that I remembered was his kissing me gently and promising that he would never leave me.

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It took me some time to catch Mrs. Malone's knowing smirk when she brought up breakfast the following morning and only when I looked in the mirror later on did I spot the reason for it. A love-bite the size of bloody Cornwall, way above my collar! The horny bastard!

I smiled anyway.

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Postscriptum: I naturally wrote to the London, Chatham & Dover Railway Company commending the actions of Mr. Sal Higginbotham, the guard on the goods train whose kindness had enabled me to save Sherlock, although by then I had had enough time to consider just what might really have happened. Sure enough they wrote back that the guard on that particular train had been a Mr. Frederick Leyton who did not match the description that I had provided at all, and furthermore that they had no Mr. Higginbotham working for them. Hmm.

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_Notes:_   
_† Sturry is eight miles from Reculver and the (fictional) mine while Herne Bay is five miles away. When the South Eastern Railway was trying to prevent its rival the 'Chatham' from building a line through Herne Bay and providing a much faster service to the Thanet towns, it tried to claim that the resort was adequately served by Sturry Station – which is six miles from the town!_

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	20. Interlude: Breaking-Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1895\. Sherlock does not laugh at his cousin Luke.   
> Well, he does not exactly laugh.   
> It depends on just how one defines 'laugh'.  
> All right, he laughs.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

Considering the endangerment that I had subjected myself to only the other week, I had needed something to life my spirits. So it was quite unfair of John to tell me that I was not allowed to laugh at the scene before us. Especially as the provocation was so intense.

In my cousin's room with us were him and one very sad-looking gentleman. Normally John would have been irked at Benji's presence as the behemoth was wont to leer at me every time he came over for an examination, which frankly someone of my love's skills might have realized by now was suspiciously often. Fortunately John always got so jealous after each visit that I always ended up locking the door and going to our bedroom where he forcibly impaled himself on me 'to make the point'. 

That reminded me; I had forgotten to pay Benji for his next visit.

Today however the man with the saddest face in London was looking anxiously at my cousin Luke. Benji was thirty-two now and Luke only three years short of fifty (I may have reminded him of that fact more than once recently), but that did not stop my relative glowering at me as John carefully examined him. The occasional yelps of pain did not make me smile, and I made very sure that I kept a (fairly) straight face.

I would have to take a long walk alone later so that I could laugh out loud for five minutes without being detected!

“Sorry Mr. Lucifer, sir”, Benji sniffed mournfully.

“It is not your fault, Benji”, my cousin sighed. “I did tell you to let rip.”

“It is only a pulled muscle, thankfully”, John said moving round to give himself more light. We had come to my cousin's flat as he was not currently capable of walking anywhere after one of his 'games' with Benji had ended rather unexpectedly. “You must just take it easy for a while.”

“Bet says I can stay for a few days until you recover, Mr. Lucifer sir”, Benji said with a watery smile. “Is that all right? Please?”

My control so nearly broke at that. My cousin was very clearly aware that having the rampant sex-machine that was Mr. Benjamin Jackson-Giles around was almost certainly only going to end with 'someone' taking it like a man despite his broken state, and that that 'someone' might well not survive. But Benji looked so utterly pitiful that there was only ever going to be one answer to that request.

“That would be wonderful, Benji”, he smiled. “But I am afraid that I am going to be on my back for a while.”

“That's all right Mr. Lucifer sir”, Benji said brightly. “You usually are when I'm around!”

I had to cough into my handkerchief and hold it up to cover my watering eyes at my cousin's expression. Poor Luke! But I was a caring relative, and I would not laugh at his distress. I might even come to his funeral - _which from the way that Benji was looking at him right now, might not be that far into the future!_

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End file.
